


Remains

by vwright



Category: Ylvis
Genre: AU No Wives No Kids, M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-17
Updated: 2015-03-26
Packaged: 2018-02-07 04:43:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 35,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1885560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vwright/pseuds/vwright
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What was left</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: The events, characters, and entities depicted in this work are fictional. Any resemblance or similarity to any actual events, entities, or persons, whether living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Bård stepped out into Oslo’s dark chill. The wind swept across his face like a welcome comfort against his burning body, just coming down from the high of a performance. He was still in his stage clothes, thankful for the black shirt that disguised the sweat drenching his body. The stage door was heavy and it stuck in its hinges from time to time, so with drained effort he snuck into the night. 

He waited an hour before even daring to go outside. Backstage, Bård and his brother had celebrated another job well done with beer and rapid fire conversation between themselves and the crew. He was exhausted, sure, but there was always a lingering spark after a show that could only be extinguished with brotherly banter and mild intoxication. This particular night, Bård was a little more than mildly intoxicated, and since he would be returning to the theater the next day, he decided to take a cab home. His wallet and phone were still in his car, and with slightly faltering steps he walked around the theater to the parking lot. 

It was almost eerie how quiet it was; such a steep contrast from the merriment that carried on inside. It was something he was itching to get back to—he told Vegard he’d only be two minutes—and escape the consuming silence that unsettled the bleary-eyed man.

Rounding the corner back to the stage door, the stillness was shattered by a tall man, looking the same age as Bård, in a neatly pressed dress shirt and slacks. His chocolate hair was slicked back with neat lines from the comb, and his platinum watch glistened in the fluorescent lamplight from above the stage door.

"Hey! Bård! There you are, I was looking for you." He smiled wide with his bright white teeth, arms reaching out to the man before him.

"Oh, hi Bjørn," Bård replied, stopping short in his tracks. The look of welcome was not reciprocated. It took a moment for Bård to recognize the man’s gesture and he returned it with a half-hearted handshake. "I didn’t expect you to be here."

"Oh, well I couldn’t miss it, could I? Had to see what all the fuss is about." That grin was still stretched across his face, pulling at his cheeks that it looked almost painful.

"Ha, right." Bård hated small talk with his friends, let alone old classmates he barely remembered or liked. "Um, well, what did you think?"

"Yeah, it was good. Funny." He faked a laugh, to which Bård faked an appreciative nod. "I liked the hats."

"Oh yeah, ha. Thanks." He waited three solid seconds for Bjørn to do or say something, but the man seemed content to stand and stare at him with unsettling cheer. "Well…"

"Oh hey, wait," the man lunged forward into Bård's space, who stilled at the sudden movement. "I wanted to talk to you about something."

"Now?" Bård leaned back, waiting for Bjørn to retreat, though he showed no indication that their proximity was a problem of any kind. 

"Yeah, I thought I’d catch you when you were in a good mood."

"Um, sure, what’s up?" Bård backed flush against the stage door to allow himself room to breathe.

"I just wanted to talk to you about our project."

Bård could see the puffs of breath that hit his face, temperature seeming to drop even further. Earlier in the week, Bård reluctantly agreed to meet with his old classmate. The bait of free lunch and the opportunity to free himself from the inevitable cycle of rescheduling and rescheduling until paranoia broke his will was too tempting to pass up. The afternoon went more strangely that he could have anticipated; his old classmate seemed to remember countless interactions from their past that Bård simply did not, and furthermore rattled on and on about ideas for reality shows. It became clear that he was just using Bård's status to further himself. He wasn't upset by it—it wasn't necessarily the first time someone had crawled out of the woodwork to feed off his celebrity for their own purposes—but the fact that he felt the need to fabricate a history and relationship between them, and seemingly believe it, was confusing and unnerving. 

"Hold on, our project? I thought you were just running ideas by me.” 

"Yeah, but you really liked that one. You know, about the lawyer…" Bjørn inched closer to Bård, who put a hand up between them. 

"Right, right. I remember. It was fine. It might need a few adjustments—"

"Yes, exactly." The tall man clapped his hands together and beamed, rocking back on his heels. "That’s exactly what I wanted to hear. So who should we meet next?"

"What? What are you talking about?"

"Well while we’re working on this we should try pitching it to a network. Do you think TV Norge will hear you out?" Bjørn's eyes looked far off, like he was imagining some delusional future with hopeful possibilities. Bård called his attention with his wary tone.

"Wait a second, I didn’t say I would—"

"Oh come on, your show is doing great. I’m sure they’d love to hear what other ideas you have in the works."

His smile was too sweet, his tone too encouraging. Whether it was sincere or manufactured, either way Bård needed to shut it down. His unpredictability twisted an uneasy feeling in Bård's stomach that he couldn't swallow. 

"Ok, stop. That’s not how this works. And this isn’t my idea."

"Well it’s _our_ idea, but even so—"

"No it isn’t," Bård raised his voice and Bjørn's careful façade slipped a fraction. "Look, I don’t know what you thought was happening here, but I didn’t enter into any kind of partnership with you."

"Oh come on, Bård. Don’t say that. We’re equals you and I." The tall man reached out and punched Bård's arm playfully, but there was unexpected force behind it. Bård raised his hand to rub away the blooming pain. "Ok, fine, I may be more behind the writing part of this, but we still need you to get our foot in the door."

"Bjørn, listen to me—I can’t do this with you. I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to find your own way." Bård tried to communicate some kind of gentleness in his voice, but Bjørn's face only looked more crazed at his denial. 

"Oh come on, Bård. You know I need this. You know I’ve always wanted to be in TV. You remember, don’t you? We used to talk about it all in the time at school. We said we’d get there together, you and I both."

Bård did not remember this instance. The only thing Bård remembered was an awkward tall kid who was consistently cast as the understudy in plays. The fit, well dressed man who spoke feverishly and too intimately before him barely resembled the gangly teen. 

"Bjørn—"

"Look, all I need is 30,000 kr and I can pull together a team—"

" _30,000 kr?_ Are you fucking kidding me?" 

It was shocking to Bård that he suddenly laid his true intentions so bare, but he was at least thankful he could resolutely tell the crazed man to fuck himself, and have a good reason for it besides a nagging, creeped out feeling.

"We don’t want to seem cheap. If we’re pitching this to a network we want to have a high quality—"

"You’ve lost your fucking mind. I’m not giving you any money. We’re not pitching a TV show." The glint of the pricey watch caught Bård's eye again. Looking further, his cuff links looked like they were encrusted with gems of some sort. It wasn't adding up. "What’s going on? Where is this coming from?"

"Nothing’s happening, you said we could work together." His voice reminded Bård of a kicked puppy, or a child trying to appeal to an adult's merciful side. Bard wasn't feeling merciful, and he never liked animals that much either. 

"I never said that. And it’s not happening. Look I have to go—"

"Wait!" Bjørn grabbed Bård's turning shoulder and yanked it back, with a force far beyond Bård's own. He froze, looking back at the man, unsure of his next move. Bjørn seemed to realize his misstep. "Wait. Okay, I’ll be frank. I owe some people money—"

"Jesus fucking christ, you can’t be serious." Bård closed his eyes with a sigh.

"Listen, I know, I know. It’s not a big deal, I’m just in a crunch right now—"

"So the whole TV show thing, that was all just so you could borrow money?"

"No! No, of course not. I was going to use the money to pay off my debt, but then I was going to hire the team out of pocket." Bård leaned away, yearning for the space Bjørn denied him. His hand still held his shoulder, and like flipping a switch the fingers ceased digging into his skin and instead slipped down his arm. Bjørn's smooth palm lingered on Bård's wrist. "Come on, Bård, you know me. I’m not like that. Of course the show is for real. I’m your friend, we’re friends. I wouldn’t lie to you about that." His stare softened, tone turned to cooing—like coaxing out a frightened, cornered animal. On closer inspection, his eyelids were rimmed red, and a sheen of sweat clung to his pristine hairline, though the night breeze blew steady as ever.

Bård swallowed, throat tense as unplaceable foreboding slumped over his body. In that moment, the stage door at Bård's back thumped, a presence knocking on the other side.  

"Bård? Are you still out there?" Vegard's voice carried through the metal barricade between them. The door handle shook and turned, though the door didn't move. The mere sound of his brother, of safety, renewed Bård's strength and courage. He ripped his hand out of Bjørn's.

"Look, I have to go. I’m sorry, but I can’t help you." He turned completely around, pulling on the handle. He looked to the hinges, rust crusting around the bolts that held them together.

"Hey!" Bjørn grabbed him again, pinching his grip around Bård's elbow. Wrenching him around, he was faced with Bjørn's changed expression. Coercion was gone—now only desperation remained. "You said you would help me."

"Well I can’t. I have to go."

"Why? Why won’t you just do this?"

He shook Bård's arm, as if he could rattle the answer he wanted out of him. The steady sound of his brother's body colliding with the solid door inspired a calmer, gentler tactic. 

"Because I can’t be your partner. That’s not how this works."

"Why not?" Bjørn gritted his teeth.

"Because I can’t. Let me go now, Bjørn." Bård placed his other hand on top of Bjørn's, slowly pulling it away. The force holding him faded, until their hands were only connected through Bård's tentative touch. 

"Please, Bård, I need your help. I need this." He looked straight into his eyes, and Bård saw the last resort of a truly desperate man. He pitied him, for it was a pitying look. Sympathy dampened his pulsing panic.

"I’m sorry—" Bård was interrupted by Vegard's body falling through the door frame and crashing into his back. Bjørn's hands were knocked out of his, and Bård took a long step away from the taller man—almost like he'd been caught. 

Vegard looked between them, immediately recognizing the signs of distress printed all over Bård's face.

"What the hell is going on?" Vegard asked, eyes darting to Bjørn's suddenly stoic face. 

"Nothing, we’re fine," Bård asserted. "He was just leaving." He looked to Bjørn, whose returning gaze held nothing but contempt. Desperation, vulnerability—whatever he saw before fled the moment Vegard entered the picture. He took another step back, bumping into his brother's arm.

"Okay…" Vegard's suspicious tone implied an inquiry, one that Bård would answer later. He communicated this to his brother through a glance, which Vegard accepted as they turned and walked back through the door with synchronous steps. 

"Is it because of him?" Bjørn called, stopping Bård in his tracks.

"What?" He turned around first, Vegard following suit only a moment later.

"Is it because of him? You won’t help me because you’re with him?"

The cold, dead look on the man's face struck Bård, his eyes boring not back at him, but at the sight of his brother beside him.

"Bjørn, just go home."

"Just answer the fucking question. You won’t help me because you’re with him?"

Bård weighed his options. He could stand there, arguing with someone who clearly saw no reason; someone who was possibly high, insane, or worse—or he could give him the answer he wanted. It was a necessary means to dismissal, no matter how dangerous or incorrect it might be. 

"Yes. My partnership with my brother comes first. Always. I’m sorry."

Bård turned and slammed the door. Eyes adjusting to the new light of the interior, he tried to blink away the last haunting look the man on the other side cast his way.

When he looked up, Vegard was looking back—a healthy helping of concern mixed in with his lightly inebriated state.

"What just happened? Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I’m fine." Bård rubbed his arm, sore from Bjørn's grip.

"Who was that guy?"

"I went to school with him." Bård was unsure how much he should divulge. Sparing himself a lecture against humoring lunatics was high on his priority list. "We got coffee last week when he called me up out of the blue, and just now he tried to get me to lend him money."

"You're kidding me," Vegard laughed. "How come I’ve never heard of this guy?"

"I barely know him, to be honest. He’s acting like we were great friends or something, but we really weren’t."

Vegard's eyes focused on Bård's face, likely picking up on his residual unease. Bård added a smile and chuckle to comfort away his caution. Vegard accepted willingly. 

"Vultures, Bård. You gotta watch out. Be mean to people once in a while." He patted Bård's untouched arm and moved ahead in the hall, leading them back to their dressing room. The sounds of clinking glasses and chatter echoed against the concrete walls.

" _Meaner_ , he says." Bård caught up, evening his stride in time with his brother's. "Incredible—from the guy who calls me a 'fucking prick' on the regular. Stop the presses everyone—"

"Shut up." Vegard shoved him, Bård only losing his footing for a moment. The familiar prickles of gaiety flittered over his skin as a smile spread across his face. It was a particular feeling. It came only in instances like this: when the specific reprieve of his brother's shared happiness was cast over him, pinning a weight like a hot stone dumped into his stomach. The heat sizzled and fizzed, blowing out its excess glee in steamed laughter and insults directed at his attentive, grinning brother. 


	2. Chapter 2

Twelfth day of rehearsals, already sick of it. It wasn't the material necessarily, but that itself was enough to put him in a bad mood. Every fucking cheesy line that got passed between them made his eyes roll, and what's worse was that Bård seemed to think he was blameless in it. Like Vegard was the only one out of good ideas, and that he was the sole proprietor of bad humor in their partnership. Incorrect. Both of them were tired, and strained, and Vegard was proud that at least he had the wherewithal to realize his part in their collective failure. This disparity in their perceptions led to aggravating work days, and even worse evenings where the pair were worn thin, running on fumes, and yanking their collars back to keep from nipping at each other's throats. 

New season of the talk show. New stage show on top of that. Vegard tried to pinpoint just whose bright idea it was to take on both at the same time. He thought it might have been him, in retrospect, but he'd never admit it for the great mistake it was. They'd managed it before, but that was before. They were younger, and happier, and didn't have this thing between them. Vegard didn't know what to call it, and didn't want to consult Bård's opinion because bringing it up would be solidifying its existence. His hopeful self was still holding out that maybe it was in his head, that maybe he and his brother weren't really at their breaking point. When Bård told him to shut up, not a trace of humor in his voice for the fifth time that night, the plug was finally pulled on Vegard's dying hope. Every argument wore his patience a little thinner. Times past indicated that his tolerance for Bård was an unending, miraculously renewable resource. Yet this singular month tested every belief he previously held, as his stores depleted and he was left with nothing but reticence and bitterness. To put it simply, he was done putting up with his little brother's bossy, dismissive attitude, and in his mind, there was little reason to make excuses for it anymore. 

But it was one thing to feel he was done, and another thing to finish it. Bravery ran out with contentment at the start of the month. 

He sat in their dressing room, flicking through notifications on his phone. Far too few notifications to take up much of his time, but he wanted to linger and wallow in his frustration for at least twenty minutes before clearing out. Everyone else was milling about the theater, chattering about their plans for the weekend. His brother would undoubtedly be going out with everyone that night, despite their scheduled 9 am rehearsal the following morning. He'd be lucky if Bård showed up even an hour late. It would just be the two of them, working out the transitions in the show, and Vegard rued any time alone with his brother with no one else there to act as a buffer. Bård was a pain when he was well rested; when he was hung over, he was agony.  

A new email—wonderful, maybe someone finally getting back to him about those reservations for the airfield he had inquired about. But no, of course not, another email from their manager. 

> _Remind Bård he needs to pick up the costumes for the police sketch from the tailor._
> 
> _Double check that the measurements are correct before bringing them back._
> 
> _Takk-- J_

Another chore he'd have to deliver to Bård. There would likely be resistance. He sighed dramatically and spun in his chair, slowing as vertigo started its swivel behind his eyes. He planted his feet flat on the tile, steadying himself across his reflection in the brightly lit mirror. As he waited for his world to still, he focused in on his face before him. The long hours were taking its toll—hair flat, lips chapped, dark circles appearing around his eyes. Or maybe it was just age. Vegard knew he was entering that stage of life where vanity could no longer reconcile the reality of his aging body, and action would have to be taken in some regard. Maybe he'd start dragging around one of those half-gallons of water everywhere, or using expensive skin creams that would yield little to no result per ounce. He pulled at his lower eyelid, watching the speed in which it snapped back into place. It wasn't fast enough for his liking. He tried it again, when his brother opened the dressing room door. 

Their eyes made contact through the mirror, and Bård's face was that irritating shade of bored, ridiculing and removed. He proceeded into the room, searching for his phone on the counter beside him. Finding it, his attention was averted and Vegard wagered how long he could let himself "forget" his task of reminding Bård. 

"You look bad," Bård spoke.

"What?"

"You look bad, like ill. Go to the doctor if you're getting sick. You're useless enough as it is, we don't need you physically incapacitated as well." Bård took his eyes off his phone to look at Vegard, the corners of his mouth uttering a faint flicker upward. Vegard wasn't in the mood.

"Is that supposed to be funny?"

"I'm not trying to be funny. If you get sick it's a liability." Bård looked back at his phone before turning away completely, picking up his jacket from the back of his chair. Vegard's eyes followed him, watching him shove things in his pockets and ready to leave, weighing whether he could get away with a text once he'd left. Bård started for the door.

"Jorgen wants you to go to the tailor tomorrow and pick up the costumes."

Bård paused, whipping his head back. He was going to put up a fight. 

"What costumes?"

"For the police sketch. Make sure the measurements are right too before you leave."

"Why can't you pick them up?"

Vegard could tell Bård was barely listening anymore, just readying his defenses. He sighed.

"Because he asked _you_ to pick them up."

"Well too bad. I'm busy." Bård crossed his arms and leaned back on his heels.

"Busy doing what?"

"The police sketch was your idea anyway. I hate that sketch. I've never wanted to do it." 

"Come on, Bård."

"Fuck it, I'm having nothing to do with this. Pick them up yourself. Your idea, you do the work for it."

Before giving it time to hurt, Vegard numbed himself from the words his brother spat. Apathy was quickly becoming his drug of choice in these trying times. He flattened his voice and let his face drop for his next move. 

"Fine, Bård, I'll do it. Happy? You win."

The look on Bård's face said that Vegard's concession had the desired effect. The guilty little flick of his eyes down to his shoes and up again rallied a small victory for Vegard's side. 

"I don't even know your measurements anyway," Bård fumbled, scrambling to justify his misstep.

"I don't know yours either." 

Bård uncrossed his arms slowly, rubbing down his forearms, inhaling loudly in the small room.

"I'll text you when I'm at the tailor. Try to send me your measurements before then," Vegard offered. Bitterness crawled in his throat for the out he was giving him, but at least he'd appear to be the bigger man between them. There was little else he could do.

"Okay..." Bård gave little in the way of thanks, instead focusing on his phone's screen, reading something. Vegard resented his superior maturity yet again.

"Okay," he said, loudly enough to call his brother's attention.

"Right. Fine." He grabbed the door handle and left, eyes shooting back to his phone as he made his exit. 

Vegard wondered if it was cowardly, choosing to no longer combat the callousness brewing inside him. At some point in the conversation he swore to himself to stop supporting his brother—to be resolutely absent whenever he next needed him. Fuck taking the high road. He felt low, and Bård would realize how far they had sunk in the pit of deteriorating brotherhood when it was much too late. Vegard would let him. He'd let them fall. The state things were in, there wasn't much to lose anyway.

 

* * *

 

It was hard to feel anything beyond the massive chasm of discontent. Although, Bård wouldn't say it in so many words. He didn't really know how to describe what he was feeling, or why he was feeling any of it. He did know that Vegard was the cause of it, and as a result took every opportunity to retaliate. If he thought vengeance would alleviate his suffering, he was wrong.  

Leaving the dressing room, Bård texted two of his friends to make sure they were coming out tonight. When he got to the lobby he met up with two guys on the crew, deciding to get a ride with them out to the bars. They went out for kebabs first, but Bård wasn't hungry. 8 PM it was still too early to begin the night, regrettably, as Bård messaged three more of his friends, checked the weather for the night, news headlines, and finally played a game on his phone for thirty minutes straight. Under different circumstances it would likely strike him as a problem, that he insisted to be in the presence of others at all times, even though he had no desire to speak to any of them. One of the guys had to remind him twice to put on his seat belt on the way over. He asked if Bård had already started drinking without them, for how loopy he was acting. Bård laughed, made a joke back, and they bought into the deflection just as he knew they would.

The night began perfectly, plenty of people showing up to provide suitable distraction and conversation between sips of drinks. For the first hour Bård actually forgot his default state of melancholy, until he got a text from his brother asking for his measurements. He didn't answer at first, shoving his phone back into his pocket for ten minutes and brewing over his irritation. His inevitable reply was combative, angry, something he'd never send to someone unless he was sure of their forgiveness. Because that's all it really was: every dig, jab, curse was another attempt to get his brother to lend him some leniency. If they began down the road of reprieves Bård felt they could finally return to some semblance of normal.  

Vegard responded with two words: _Fine. Nevermind._ He wouldn't fight anymore. Every time he rolled over, ignored and conceded, fear dug a little deeper in Bård's heart. 

"I can't stop fucking up," he said to the loud, unhearing room. Sitting at the bar he kicked his foot into the wood in front of him repeatedly. There was only one person beside him, but he didn't know them. The familiarity of his annoyed state brought one level of comfort, but the intrusion of the man next to him trampled it to the ground.

He saw the recognition in the man's eyes before the guy could even sputter a drunken, "Hey, aren't you..."

Bård nodded politely, pinched smile, and averted his gaze.

"Holy shit, Jon! Jon come here!" the man called to his friend across the bar. "It's Ylvis! Right here! He's here right now!" A taller blond man shouted back and jogged over to where they sat. Bård gripped his glass tighter, dreading the moment to come. It was the same thing every time. The same shallow assumptions, the same alien praise he couldn't wrap his head around.

"Oh my god, you weren't kidding me, it's really him," the friend said, looking Bård up and down. "He's shorter than I thought."

The two men, adult men, who Bård thought should know better, continued to stare like little children not yet taught their manners. He felt like a zoo animal, trapped behind a fence of celebrity that gave 'normal' people a license to jaunt and jeer in their removed way. He wasn't one of them. No one in the entire room was like him. There were only a few people in his life who were. If he wanted to find normalcy, escape the lake of leeches that saw him as a blood vessel of success, he was confined to the bubble of those who equally feared the water. But they weren't there. Bård pulled out his wallet, readying his escape as he paid the bartender.

"Wait, where's the other one?" the tall one asked.

"Oh yeah, where's your brother?" the other chimed in.

Bård paused, hand resting on top of the cash on the counter. It was part of the standard litany of questions whenever he was spotted solo, which was often. It wasn't a jarring question. His venomous answer was.

"He's a little busy fucking your mother right now."

"Excuse me?" The shorter one puffed up his chest, rising from the bar stool. All amicable airs dropped like stones, the rough catch of the man's voice amusing Bård and his want for confrontation.

"Hm?" Bård said, taunting. The man took another quick step forward, when a hand was thrown between them.

"Hey, Bård, let's go, okay?" It was Atle, the one who drove them there. Maybe the only sober one in the whole bar.

"Gladly." Bård stepped away from the counter and followed his friends out the door.

The freezing air stung his skin on the walk to the next bar. Their group walked slow, some members more inebriated than others. Bård was somewhere in the middle, though it worked to his advantage to pretend he was on the same level as the ones slurring their words. He could play the somber drunk. He kept his mouth shut, trudging along in the flurry of his thoughts.

"So what, you start fights now? Think you're some kind of bad ass?" Atle sidled up beside him, smirking with camaraderie.

"Apparently," Bård returned the smirk.

"What did you even say?"

"He asked where Vegard was, so I told him he was fucking his mother."

"Holy shit," Atle laughed. Bård thought maybe he shouldn't have been honest. It seemed telling. Of something, whatever it was. Bård issued a chuckle back, reciprocating the light air.

"I'm sorry, but I'm really glad Vegard didn't come out tonight," Atle said after a moment, smile still clinging to his cheeks. The laugh caught in Bård's throat. "I mean I know he's your brother, but god he's fucking lame." 

Bård set his gaze forward, words escaping him.

"But you know what I'm talking about, you talk more shit on him than anyone." He clapped Bård's back, shaking his head like it was an old favorite joke of his. It probably was, Bård thought. 

Someone called his friend's attention, and Bård fell back into his mind. It was just a joke. He and his brother fought—it was funny. It happened all the time. What didn't happen was Bård caring about it, or Vegard letting him do it. Bård yearned for reason, a moment, some time or place or event to blame for it all. He racked his brain for the moment of inception, but instead only came up with memories of staring at his brother and wanting to grab him and hit him. But there had to be a reason for that too.

Maybe it was sadness. Maybe it was just sadness and he was floundering, flailing, whipping at everything in his wake to dissipate the panic seizing his chest. Making people mad didn't matter. Hurting people didn't matter. The only way to stop from being hit was to hit back—except in Bård's case, the blows were coming from inside himself and his only choice was to lash out at whoever was nearest. Vegard was always close. That was the problem. 

To be so filled with anger and upset was toxic. It seeped into his pores and blew out in fumes from his furious breath when he snapped every hour of every day. Solutions existed somewhere in the hidden synapses of Bård's brain, and instead of cutting in further, he blanketed their source with six more shots and the company of ignorant parties. 

 

* * *

 

He managed to make it to the tailor's; he paid for the cab and everything. When Vegard's hand was on the door handle he found the other fidgeting, pushing back the freshly showered curls from his head. He bit his lip, breathing deep before turning around and walking down the street. Bård was right. It was a bad sketch. He walked three blocks before hailing another cab, too embarrassed to call back the one that just left.   

He arrived at the theater earlier than expected, which was early to begin with. The place was deserted, as expected. He figured he had an hour to kill before Bård was supposed to arrive, so in reality, two hours before his brother would get there. Vegard walked down the center aisle of the theater, slowing as he approached the stage. Bits of glow in the dark tape marked spots where they'd stand for the opening—Vegard on the left, Bård on the right. He hopped up, standing on his mark and looking out at the empty seats. It was uncomfortable, the quiet, the pure absence of people. He looked at Bård's mark, looked through the space where he'd stand to the still wings beyond it. He felt remorse stirring in his chest, but he didn't know for what. 

The faint sound of metal on metal reverberated through the theater. It pricked Vegard's ears, turning around in a circle to determine its source. He followed the noise through the wings, down the hall of the back stage, past the dressing rooms, winding through the building. It became louder, more inconsistent, and as he closed in on a back room where the pipes on the ceiling led, he thought he heard someone grunting. 

A door marked _MAINTENANCE_ stood ajar, and the unmistakeable sound of human effort issued from within the room. Vegard walked in.

The room was mostly empty, gray boxed panels and meters lining the walls. There was a chair near the far wall, and adjacent, a man kneeled beside the only other door in the room, leading to the outside. The parts of the door knob were at his feet, and he cranked with a wrench at the remaining mechanics in its stead. 

"Hello?" Vegard called. The man turned around, eyes wide and mouth hanging open. Vegard noticed a tool box on the other side of his knees.

"Hi," he said back, standing and brushing off the dust from his jeans. He was younger than Vegard thought, probably his own age. His head wasn't far from the low ceiling, and he wore a dark t-shirt that almost matched the color of his dark hair. The man smiled, and Vegard felt awkward and out of place.

"Sorry," he sputtered. "I didn't realize anyone else was here."

"No problem," the man said, walking closer before stopping a few feet from Vegard. The look in his eyes and slight smile made it seem like he knew him. Probably recognized him from the posters in the lobby, Vegard reasoned.

"We're just having a morning rehearsal, so..." He felt the need to explain himself. There was an authority about the man before him, something commanding about his presence, despite his amiable demeanor.  

"Where's your brother?" he asked. His stare never wavered, and Vegard tried not to stammer.

"Oh, he's not here right now." Vegard looked back at the open door, almost to make sure it was still there.

"Sorry," he said. The man cleared his throat and the mask of assuredness faltered for a moment. "I just figured you'd be together."

"He's coming soon, he'll be here in an hour or so."

"Excellent." The man looked at his feet, and then his eyes met Vegard's once more. "That's perfect."

 

* * *

 

Bård finally got up when he received the text, ignoring his alarm for a solid forty minutes beforehand.  

> From: Vegard
> 
> [9:14 AM]
> 
> Can you get here as soon as possible please? I need you.

He was surprised at the text's cordial composition, when he knew Vegard had to be fuming that he was late. He pushed himself up in bed, every muscle in his body aching. When he stood, the pounding began in his temples and he tried to stretch it away. No such luck. Dressing was reduced to a plain white t-shirt and jeans with a hoody. He skipped breakfast, grabbing a half-empty coke from his fridge before shuffling out of his apartment. He would have been annoyed, if he could muster the energy to feel anything other than pure concentrated exhaustion. 

On the cab ride over he called Tom, their sound guy. The cab driver witnessed Bård's end of the conversation, eyeing the celebrity through his rearview mirror.

"Hey. Yeah, I'm going over now. Do you think you can come earlier today? As soon as you can I guess. I don't know, I just got a text from Vegard telling me to hurry up, so I'm guessing he'll be pissy. Yeah, it was good...fun. I just have the worst hangover in history and I can't deal with him by myself right now. 1? Jesus, okay just do your best. Okay. Thanks."

The cab driver looked away before Bård could notice him staring. In truth, he would have been too dazed to care.

The side entrance to the theater was open, thankfully, and he walked to the stage with slow steps, dreading the inevitable lecture on punctuality. The stage was empty, no sign of his brother in any of the seats either. 

"Vegard?" His voice echoed in the soundless room.

He sighed, shoving his hands in the pockets of his hoodie before heading to the dressing room. The door was shut. He rapped his fist on the wood quick and sharp.

"Hello? Vegard?" He turned the handle, opening to the empty room. There were scripts sitting on the counter from the night before, untouched.  

"What the fuck, Vegard?" he shouted in the hall, turning around in a circle unsure where to go. "I'm fucking here now, you can stop being pissed!" A thud followed his last word, and Bård turned his head in the direction of the end of the hall. It crooked to the left, to a room Bård knew was there but he'd never entered before. He stood still, listening for another sound, but there was none. He rounded the corner, and saw light coming from the half open door.

He approached, hesitancy lacing his steps. He shook off the feeling, embarrassed of himself, before grabbing the door knob and opening it wide. The room was dimly lit, and then the sound of something whooshing through the air darkened the world from behind Bård's eyes.  


	3. Chapter 3

The first sounds slipping out of the black were shushing, low tones that reminded him of being very little—like when his mother would comfort him when he was sick. His head rested on something soft and warm; there were fingers carding gentle strokes through his hair. Bård fidgeted, turning his face further into what he slowly came to recognize as someone's lap. The calm voice above him kept speaking, making the same sounds over and over. Soon he heard those sounds as his name, and encouragements. But there was pain; heavy overwhelming pain in his skull that made the world feel like it was twirling and swaying.

"My head..." he croaked out.

"It's okay, Bård. Shhh. Are you waking up? It's okay, you can wake up now." The large hand moved from his hair and traveled down to cup his cheek. His face turned up, and he opened his eyes with effort, fighting against some instinct that urged him to keep sleeping. He found himself looking in the face of a dark-haired man, whose eyes looked eagerly back. There was a scar on his cheek, just under his eye, too faint to notice unless you were as close as Bård sat. He became aware of his own body: how he was lain across the long legs of the man before him, and how they were both sat on the concrete floor of a dimly lit room. There were pipes lining the ceiling, though he could see little else. He thought he heard movement from the other side of the space, but as he moved to turn his head, the strong hand turned it back and held it firm. Through the forced eye contact, Bård searched his brain for how he knew this face. The hair, stubble on his chin and upper lip, even the scar stirred no memories, but there was something about the eyes—the wild look. 

"Bjørn?"

"Hey, there we go." A wide grin spread across his face, baring his perfectly straight, white teeth. "You remember me, that's so sweet." The hand started petting his face again, the room still spinning inside his head. "I didn't think you would—your brother didn't."

"What?"  

The rustling from across the room sounded again, and Bård turned his head before Bjørn could stop him. At the other side, near a door with no knob, sat his brother in a chair. But he didn't look right. He was wriggling in his seat, rocking from side to side but moving very little. There was something over his mouth, and low muffles were the only things Bård could make out. The slow, creeping awareness that something was wrong pooled in his stomach, and his breathing became shallow. Bjørn tutted, and Bård turned back to find him staring at Vegard with a displeased expression.

"Even after I re-introduced myself, he still had no idea. But that's okay, we're well acquainted now."

"What the fuck?" Panic leaked into his voice, tugging Bjørn's eyes back down to his face.

"How are you feeling? Do you think you can sit up?"

Bård elevated his upper body by only a few inches, immediately regretting it. Nausea rolled in his stomach and throat as he froze, waiting for the world to still.

"Easy, easy now. You were out for almost twenty minutes. I'm surprised you can even see straight." Bjørn cradled the back of his neck. Bård closed his eyes, trying to gain control of his breathing. The supportive hand helped, and he swallowed twice before daring to move again. He tried it again slower, the other man aiding and encouraging him until he was upright. Bård panted, opening his eyes and looking left to where his brother sat. Vegard looked back, head leaning forward as he shouted behind what muzzled him.

Bård moved his leg, startled, and felt something hard brush against it. His eyes wandered over, and in the other hand that Bjørn had kept by his side, he loosely gripped a pistol. Dread filled every space in his lungs. It worsened when Bjørn's other hand slid up his shoulder, coming to rest near his neck. He massaged the spot, looking at Bård with a small smile. 

"Do you want to go see your brother?" he asked, voice even and intimate. 

"What the fuck is going on?"

Bård tried to control the tremor in this voice, and flinched when Bjørn's hand holding the gun rose from the floor and pressed against his other arm. The pressure wasn't threatening in itself, and his expression was as easy as if he were speaking to a child. 

"Come on Bård, let's go say hi."

Bjørn's hand lowered to Bård's back, supporting him as he swiveled his legs to rise. Bjørn stood, grabbing his arm and pulling Bård up. He got to kneeling on his knees when he felt another head rush. They waited, before Bjørn suggested he shuffle over without standing.

"Hold onto my hand," he offered. Bård looked up at him; he looked like a mountain. His palm reached down to Bård and he accepted. His hands shook, though he was unsure if the reaction was from weakness or fear. Bjørn kept a slow pace as they moved closer to where his brother sat; he felt bruises forming on his knees each time they connected with the cold concrete. As inconspicuously as he could manage, he let his hand glide over his pocket, feeling for his phone. Gone. He hid his grimace of dread in the one of pain that covered his face. They came to a stop a foot or two before Vegard, when Bjørn released his hand. Bård's arm flopped with dead weight to the ground, and he leaned on it before he looked up. 

There were thin strips of black plastic around his ankles, pulled tight around the cuffs of his jeans. Zip ties. He figured there were similar ones binding his hands behind the chair. A thick piece of black tape covered his mouth, forcing the heavy breathing from his nose. His left cheek was swollen and red, and Bård could see darkening bruises on his chin. He looked into his brother's eyes, saw him pressing down fear. From the corner of his eye, he saw an open tool box. Then he noticed the blood clinging to his hairline. Worry seized his throat and he blinked rapidly before he could speak.

"What did you do to him?" Bård turned to where Bjørn stood behind him.   

"He's fine. I just needed to get him ready." He crossed his arms, tilting his head at the bound man. 

"Ready for what?" Bård swallowed.

"To begin." 

Bjørn began to stride toward Vegard, when a crashing sound pounded from above them. The three of them jumped, then went still—listening. Bjørn looked back toward the door they entered from, then to Bård who stared wide-eyed. He hesitated, raising and lowering the gun in his hand. Finally he turned and walked toward the door.

"Stay," he barked at Bård, before grabbing the door knob and turning it slow and silent. Inch by inch he opened the door wider, peering through the opening.

Bård turned back around to his brother, the first moment they'd had unobserved. Vegard's eyes were wild—he was waiting for Bård to turn around sooner. Bård almost spoke when Vegard shook his head violently. Bård watched, baited breath, trying to interpret a game of charades where Vegard could only use his eyes, small motions of his head, and the adrenaline associated with survival to communicate his message. Bård didn't understand what he was trying to say; he kept nodding his head up toward the ceiling. Bård shook his head, mouthed  _'What?'_  back. Vegard closed his eyes, frustration coloring his beaten face. He nodded at the door, eyes shifting to the side.

Bård turned around, seeing that Bjørn had stepped into the hall. His eyes searched the corridor, caution in his stance. The door was wide open, and Bård turned back to Vegard for once last chance at instruction. Vegard widened his eyes, pushed his head forward. Bård focused his mind, grasping at an answer in the gesture.

"HELP," Bård screamed as loud as his lungs could manage. Bjørn turned startled to the sound. Their eyes made contact and Bård screamed again. "HELP! WE NEED HELP!"

Bjørn's face twisted into anger, stepping back through the threshold and placing a finger to his lips. He shushed him, popped his head into the hallway once more and looked each way. Bård continued to scream, hollering the same words over again. Bjørn came into the room once more, shutting the door gently. He walked to Bård's yelling, kneeling form, and towered over him.

"Who's here? No one is supposed to be here, who did you tell you were coming today?" he asked, the gun shaking in his hand.

"Fuck you," Bård spat back in a normal tone, before screaming again in defiance. He shouted to the ceiling, imagining his voice carrying through the layers of concrete that separated their prison and the world.

"Shut the fuck up," Bjørn hissed, stepping closer to Bård. He wouldn't. Something told him that the level of care their captor paid him was indicative of mercy, or cowardice. He watched Bjørn's face as he yelled, shifting from anger, to panic, and then to an eerie calm. He adjusted his grip on the gun in his hand, and walked slowly over to Vegard. He stood behind his chair, framing Bård's brother like a looming, malevolent throne. 

"If you don’t shut up right now," He clicked the pistol back and brought the small barrel to his brother’s temple. "I shoot him." Bård’s voice cut out like pulling a power cord on a blaring stereo. "Be quiet. Silent." Bjørn nudged the metal closer against Vegard’s head, and Bård’s lungs kicked into over drive. "I can still hear you breathing. If you try one more time to be heard, I will kill him, and then I will kill you. Hm?" Bjørn grabbed his brother’s hair and tugged his head back, earning a whimper from the captive man. His eyes were shut tight when Bård tried to catch his gaze, processing the near impossibility of the request. 

"You can say okay."

The blood returned to his face and pounded in his ears, picking up a harsh steady rhythm that he fought to keep out of his lungs. There was a pistol against his brother’s head, a crazed man standing over him, and the biological imperative to panic threatened to make Bård crack. He wouldn’t, he couldn’t. He shut his mouth, exercising every force of will he had within him to still his lungs and quiet his breathing. After a few moments, he dared to look back up at their captor. His eyes were cold, waiting. Bard’s jaw trembled, teeth clattering together before he could spit out his words.

"Okay. Okay, I’m sorr—"

"That’s alright, Bård." Bjørn pulled the gun back from Vegard’s head and held it loosely in his palm. His expression wavered from bored to amused and back again. The unpredictability of everything made Bård’s stomach turn. "I understand. We’re just going to be down here for a little while. Not too long." Bård looked at the limp wrist, the small smile stuck to his face. He grimaced at the control Bjørn was obviously getting off on; he didn’t even have to hold the gun properly to keep Bård in line. The thud of his angry heart rallied against the fear coursing through him; he had to be calm, had to be quiet. The rapid rise and fall of his brother’s chest was reminder enough that his temper was not allowed to win. 

Bjørn crossed over to Bård, kneeling in front of him. He reached out with a delicate touch, pushing a lock of Bård's hair behind his ear. 

"Don't be scared. I still like you, Bård, I've always liked you." He leveled his mouth with Bård's, eyes darting up and down from his lips. "But we have to be even." 

"Even for what?" Bård asked; a subsequent pang of fear shot through him as he remembered his required silence. But Bjørn's expression didn't waver. Perhaps there was some leeway yet in Bjørn's affection.

"You really don't know, do you?" Something like a smile ghosted on his lips. "Anything on the periphery of your little world you just can't see. Don't worry, Bård, I'm going to open your eyes."

His hand came around to cup his jaw, thumb brushing soft strokes just beneath his lower lashes. Bård became uncomfortable with the sudden intimacy, and looked down at the floor away from Bjørn's gaze. His eyes came to rest on the gun once more. 

"You remember the night I came to you?" Bjørn asked, tilting Bård's face up. "It was outside this theater. Do you remember?" He nodded. "I needed you. There were bad people after me."

Bård struggled to swallow the thick air in the little space between them. It felt like he was inhaling and inhaling though he couldn't breathe a single breath. 

"Why?" he exhaled, and Bjørn grimaced at the words he expelled. His placeless expression took hold onto bitterness as he backed his face away from Bård's.

"It doesn't matter." He rose and strode away, slowing beside Vegard's chair again. His proximity to Bård's brother caused his heart to jolt, inspiring confidence and defiance in his speech. 

"Was it drugs? Gambling?"

" _It doesn't matter._ " Bjørn turned on his heel, sneering at Bård. "You wouldn't do one small thing for me, and I lost everything." 

"I couldn't just give you money," Bård reasoned. Though, he had little hope reason would appeal to this man in this state. 

"I didn't just want your money. I wanted us—I wanted to work with you, help you." Bjørn gestured with the gun.

"You can't—" 

"That's right, you had your partnership to think about. Your everything." His other hand reached onto Vegard's shoulder, his grip tensing and releasing. Vegard flinched at the contact. "I understand that now. That's why we're here."

"What do you mean?" Bård asked. There was nothing he needed and never wanted to know more. 

"You take what I have, I take what you have. That's how this works." He gritted his teeth. Bård was losing his sympathy; he felt it in his restrained bark, saw it in the way his fingers dug into his brother's shoulder. Desperation clung to the walls of his throat, calling out for clemency. 

"I didn’t take—"

"I lost my house, I lost my job, my reputation—"

"You were on drugs, you were—"

"You took them from me!" Bjørn screamed and struck Vegard across the face with an open palm. Vegard only grunted for the blow, but Bård felt it like a punch in the gut. Air had left him. As quickly as Bjørn raged he calmed again. He released a controlled exhale before forcing a smile onto his face. "But that’s okay, it'll be fine. I just have to take away what’s most important to you." He placed his hands on either side of Vegard’s head, shaking it playfully. "And if I’m lucky, I won’t even have to take it. You’ll give him up on your own."   

He held the gun casually beside his head, leaning on Vegard’s chair. Bård saw his weight pressing into his brother, elbows bearing down into his shoulders from above. His biceps flexed beneath the cuff of his t-shirt, all Bård's hope of overpowering this man withering at the sight of his strength. Vegard breathed hard and closed his eyes.  

“Do you love your brother, Bård?” He looked up from Vegard's face, straight into Bård's eyes. His tone was light again, as if he were genuinely curious. 

Bård hesitated, wondering what kind of answer he wanted. If he was really so jealous, perhaps it would please him for Bård to sway allegiances and profess his love for the man before him. The fact that actions, statements like these disgusted him less and less attested to his desperation. Bård’s eye was distracted by Vegard’s rapidly tapping foot, and a shot of empathetic fear pulsed in his stomach.

“Well, do you?” Bjørn forced his decision with his impatient voice. If they were going to die, he couldn’t lie.

“Yes. I do.”

Judging by the way his shoulders relaxed, Bård had said the right thing. Though anything that was going right for this man meant things were going bad for himself and Vegard. He wanted to split his thoughts, answer Bjørn and still think of a way out of there, but his fear-racked mind couldn’t manage it. His teeth began chattering again.

“And what are you willing to do to save his life?” He rubbed the tip of the gun in small circles against Vegard's temple. 

“Anything. Whatever you say.”

Bjørn paused and a satisfied grin bloomed on his face.

“Really? Anything?”

“Yes, anything.” Bård tried for urgency, to get this 'anything' out of the way so he would just let them go. The longer it took, the less he believed it would ever come to pass.

"That’s what I like to hear.”

Bjørn pulled away from Vegard to come around behind Bård. He tried to watch him, turn his head to follow his path, but it would require his lower body to move, something he instinctively knew was not allowed. He had to remain fixed, held—a stationary toy at the mercy of a cruel child. He resented his helplessness. Little seemed to matter when it was only him who was being directly threatened.  

“What the fuck do you want?” he spat, looking at his knees. He felt Bjørn's hot breath on the back of his neck.

“I don’t want anything, there’s nothing you can give me anymore.” His hands traveled up Bård's arms, shoulders, and into his hair. Bård trembled uncontrollably; rage, panic, hopelessness—any could have been the cause. 

“Then why are we here, what’s the point of this?”

Bjørn twisted his fist in the golden hair, yanking his head back and exposing his throat. His lips grazed the side of it, slowly rising up the column of his neck.

“The key...” He spoke softly. His mouth came closer to his ear, whispering so only Bård could hear him. “...is to humiliate you. Just like you did to me.”

The concept of _worse_ came to Bård's mind. That there were hidden horrors awaiting them burned a mark behind his eyes like a cattle brand. It stung until his eyes watered, filling his lids as much as they could hold without overflowing. 

"Please—please I can give—"

"It won't be so different. You two were always close." Bjørn snaked his hands back down Bård's arms, caressing his skin and providing a discomforting warmth with his touch. His mouth hovered over the shell of Bård's ear, breathing words like they weren't a command, but an airy whim.  

"Just now, you'll be closer."


	4. Chapter 4

Bård was vaguely aware he was being instructed to do something, although he couldn’t say exactly what. His mind became blank in a fit of what was likely pure panic. It could have been his head—it was aching as the pain honed in on a particular spot on the back of his skull. He was pushed forward, the warm presence constant behind him, nudging. His eyes fell on the open toolbox beside the chair. Dark eyes bore down on him, though he avoided their gaze. The temperature of the room seemed to increase to volcanic levels, the space around him closing in like a buzzing shroud. He focused on the tin box: not very large, painted blue and rusting around the edges. Inside were only a few things, an electric screwdriver, various washers, nuts, bolts, and a large crescent wrench in the middle. The head of it was darker than the rest, painted a curious, uneven crimson. His breath hiccupped in his chest. 

A hand slammed the lid of the toolbox shut. “Bård,” Bjørn barked. He might have been calling his name before, Bård couldn’t tell. His constant cooing melted into the periphery of his awareness at some point. But he was aware now, very aware of the tense grip Bjørn moved to his jaw, forcing his head forward. He stared directly at his brother’s lap. 

“You’re going to do what I say, right Bård?” The scent of his breath close to Bård’s face reached his nostrils. It smelled sterile, like he’d been drinking Listerine. “Nod yes.”

Bård nodded, though it felt like the hand controlling his jaw might have had a part in it.

“Good. Unbutton his pants.”

Bård remained still. Hands at his sides. Hair hanging in front of his eyes. Heart hammering away behind his ribs. Reality seemed to be slipping from every perceivable sense. There was no world in which the events that were occurring would actually happen. In the real world, Bård didn’t do as he was told, reach out and pop the button on his brother’s jeans. In the void space, the room where Bård, his brother and Bjørn sat then, things like that could happen. There, Bård could reach out and lower the zipper as the man behind him commanded. It wasn’t so bad in the otherworldly space, where Bård could suspend his guilt and disbelief for a small action like that. What the isolation of the void didn’t remove, however, was the fear.

“Take him in your hand, Bård,” said Bjørn. Vegard grunted, rooting his feet into the concrete and pushing the chair back away from the seated two. The screech of the metal legs against the floor broke the levee Bård kept between his and his brother’s gaze. The fear staring back at him spilled into Bård’s calculated dissociation, causing a tightening around his sternum.

Bjørn reached his arm out, grabbing the leg of his brother and the chair. He pulled the two back toward Bård, holding them in position—closer than before. He waited, hot air puffing against Bård’s neck and shoulder. The pace increased with each passing moment, hitching when Bård inched his arm forward to the target.  

Bård wrenched his eyes away from the wide displeasure of his brother’s, and obeyed the command. Vegard’s skin was hot in his hand, limp flesh only a light weight in his palm. He didn’t move any more than that, just held him like he would a stick of dynamite.

“Touch him, Bård,” he ordered, tone soft again. Bård was unsure of how to proceed. Bjørn sensed the tension in his body, or rather felt it. “Touch him like you touch yourself.”

Bård closed his eyes, and pulled his palm a few centimeters before pushing slowly back. The drag of his sweating palm against the dry flesh was as uncomfortable for Bård as he knew it was for Vegard. He didn’t want to see his expression, the visceral embodiment of the crime he was committing. He continued, taking his time to adjust his light grip for minimal discomfort. Bjørn watched, the loud sound of air exhaling through nostrils beside Bård’s ear.

There was little change on Vegard’s part, his body completely still, though the part of him receiving treatment from his brother heated and swelled after a long minute.

“Give me your palm,” Bjørn demanded, the suddenness causing Bård to turn his head. He exhaled deeply, feeling the breath rattle in his lungs. He pulled his hand away from his brother and held it out for Bjørn to grab. The large hand cradled Bård’s, and he drew it close to his mouth. Bård couldn’t help the involuntary pull away when Bjørn’s tongue made contact with his palm. His strength allowed for no movement, dripping saliva across Bård’s hand in long laps of his tongue. The clear liquid dripped down his wrist in tiny beaded trails. When he was satisfied, he released his grip, and whispered in Bård’s ear, “Go on.”

Bård went back, sliding his slick palm against his brother’s skin. His movements were awkward, stifled by the pressing knowledge of exactly what he was doing.

“Do it right, Bård. Make it good for him.”

The gun in Bjørn’s hand grazed up the length of Bård’s working arm, prompting him to move more purposefully. He gained confidence in his strokes, his mind zoning out against the hardening mass in his hand.

After some time and strained breaths from the man above him, Bård found he had coaxed his brother into a sizable erection. He slid his thumb slowly over the tip, lost for a moment, spreading moisture from the slit in slow circles.

"Perfect," Bjørn breathed behind him. He stood and stepped away from Bård. The air hit his back for what felt like the first time since he'd been there. The pressing presence gone, Bård stilled his hand, imagining his freedom. His hope was foolish.

"Now put your mouth on him."

Bård whipped his head behind him, the comforting cloud of delusion dissipating as quickly as it had formed.

"What?" he choked. Bjørn stood to the side of him, and grabbed his chin between his thumb and forefinger. His thumb pulled and brushed across Bård's bottom lip, dipping onto his tongue and then coating it with saliva.

"You’re going to suck him off with those pretty lips of yours." He smiled sweetly, as if seeing it in his head, and Bård wrenched his face back.

"Please, no." His calm was gone. Compliance allowed persuasion one last try. "Please I’ll give you money, anything—"

"Do I need to remind you who’s in control here?" Bjørn knocked the pistol into the back of Bård’s head. The further things progressed, the less patience he had. "Do. As. I. Say."

Bård wagered in his head whether any of this was worth it. If this torture—because that’s what it was, he concluded, even if he himself had hardly been harmed—was really worth it. The steel against his skull reminded him of the final, everlasting alternative. He swallowed hard, and opened his mouth.

"There you are," Bjørn cooed as Bård lowered his head. He realized he was shaking when his lips made contact with his brother’s engorged cock. "A little further…" The gun nudged him on with light pressure to his head. Bård obeyed, allowing the first few centimeters to touch his tongue. The taste of it wasn’t completely foreign; a little like sweat, a little something else—not as revolting as he would have thought. But the reality of it, what was happening, made Bård crinkle his nose in disgust. He thanked their prison then—their descent to sin was inescapable, but at least it was walled within the room and structure of their tortured minds.

Bjørn lowered his head directly beside Bård’s, and from the corner of his eye he could see Bjørn’s piercing gaze delivering his careful orders.

“Don’t take your mouth off until he comes, or I’ll blow your head off.” He smirked at the end of it, and Bård did his best to hide his shuddering breath.

Bård felt small. His hands awkwardly rested on his brother’s shins, just to have something to hold onto. He couldn’t think too hard about the thing that was filling up his mouth, making his jaw hurt. His mind was racing too quick for it, stalling and restarting every two milliseconds. A metal nudge near his eye prompted him to move; he began with minuscule motions of his head. When that part of his brother, smooth, stiff flesh slid across his tongue, he shut his eyes to fight his urge to back off. He paused after each tiny motion, trying to negotiate his breathing. Inhaling solely through his nose he could smell sweat and the dank mildew of the room. His mouth was going dry and he tried to keep his lips and teeth as far from him as possible. Except it wasn’t really possible, and his front teeth grazed part of the swollen flesh, making Vegard grunt in disapproval. Bård looked up to his brother, whose eyes were shut tight and a pained expression covered his face. Neither of them could enjoy any of it. The shame and embarrassment prickled tears in Bård’s eyes and he stopped, not pulling his head up and not pushing it down. He sunk his tongue down into the furthest part of his mouth and tried to take a moment of respite for the greatest humiliation he’d ever felt in his life. Maybe the last feeling he’d ever have, he thought.

"Oh come on," Bjørn took notice. Before Bård could resume in panic, Bjørn grabbed a fistful of his hair and Bård’s head was pushed down into his brother’s lap. "Do I have to do it for you?"

The hard tip of his brother’s cock hit the back of his throat with blinding force. Bård’s throat spasmed around it, and his lungs seized in response to the asphyxiation. Bjørn held fast, pushing down in pulses and Bård tried to scream around the stopper in his mouth. All that came out were choking noises—breath Bård regretted wasting. He could vaguely perceive whimpers coming from his brother; Bård grabbed onto his legs, digging his fingernails into the denim with each shock of pain that assaulted his throat. He felt Vegard convulsing each time he was furthered down onto him. Tears and spit mixed in streams down his cheeks and around his chin. It was only half a minute or so, but every passing second of consciousness increased the fear and desperation inside him. He could feel himself breaking like in slow motion, promising with every muddled cry that he’d do whatever Bjørn said if he would just make it stop. His wish was granted with a chuckle from the man holding his head, pulling him off roughly and putting his mouth to his ear.   

“If you do it properly, it’ll be quick and painless,” Bjørn purred. Bård gasped like he’d been sunk to the bottom of the ocean and was resurfacing for the first time. The tears hadn’t stopped, and he left his mouth hanging open, too scared and sore to try and move. As he came to, Bjørn’s words slowly penetrated his mind. “You might even like it. Give it a try, won’t you? Hm?”

Bård looked up at his brother, the sound of his own chest rising and falling the only one in the room. Vegard trembled, crying hard in absolute silence, streaks of tears glistening under the dim artificial light. The look he gave him was pained, ashamed, and the lowness of the moment inspired something inside Bård. He loosened the tight grip he had on his brother’s legs, and smoothed his shaky palms up onto Vegard’s knees. He didn’t spare a glance at Bjørn, keeping his eye trained on the erect cock in front of him. It looked bigger, redder than before.

Bård inhaled, filling his lungs as best he could, and breathed out every quake and shiver from his body. Something different—stronger, steadier—took over the space in his mind previously occupied by fear. He couldn’t let his brother cry, he wouldn’t let them be tortured any longer by this maniac. He’d do what needed to be done, and do it well—well enough for Vegard to forget the sadness shaking his frame.

Sliding his hands onto his thighs, Bård lowered himself down voluntarily, and took his brother’s dick into his mouth. He started with just the tip, hard and hot, and flattened his tongue around the bottom of it. Like flipping a switch, his brother reacted with a quick intake of breath through his nose and a jerk of his hips. Bård continued, not stopping the rhythm of his hands on Vegard’s legs and swirling his tongue.

"Good," Bjørn said. "That’s it. Just let him in. Make him feel good." Bård tried not to listen, but his tone of satisfaction reminded him that his efforts could save them. Maybe.

He tried to conjure up images from every porn video he’d ever seen, recall memories of things done to himself that drove him wild. Picking up a slow pace, he curled his lips over his teeth and bobbed his head up and down, a little further each time. His mouth became slick without him even realizing it, saliva dripping down the length that remained unsheathed. Bård brought one of his hands around the base, rubbing in the moisture to the part he couldn’t take in his mouth. Without looking up, he could hear his brother’s breathing change its unevenness from restrained pain to reluctant pleasure.

In his concentration, Bård nearly forgot the intruding presence of Bjørn hovering just above him. He was reminded when the bump of his brother’s dick pushing against the inside of his cheek was met with a nudge of a gun outside of it. Bjørn’s heavy breathing and encouraging words of _good, just like that_ sounded beside him. He was surprised how easily he could ignore it, instead shutting his eyes and focusing on the little whimpers that slipped from his brother’s mouth.

His throat relaxed and in a swift motion he pushed down just a little more, pulling up slow and sucking along the way. Above him a muffled gasp spilled out and Bård opened his eyes, landing on the face before him. Vegard’s eyes were closed, the tears drying on his face. His brow was furrowed in a way Bård had never seen before. It was a look of unrepressed ecstasy, reinforced by the small moans that followed when Bård resumed his motion. Bård let his eyes linger a little longer, claiming victory in wiping away the pain that covered his face just a few minutes earlier. A little push in his throat made him look down, realizing his brother was thrusting his hips just the tiniest amount in time with Bård’s mouth. He worked him faster, Vegard keeping up with the quickening pace.

“Look at that, he’s going to come,” Bjørn said, an air of amusement laced in his voice. “That didn’t take long. Either you’re very good, or he really likes you.” Bjørn’s hand landed on the back of Bård’s head, not pressing, just resting. It made Bård suspicious, but he shook off the thoughts and concentrated on the imminent reach of his goal.

Closing most of his mouth around his brother’s cock, Bård undulated his tongue against the length. Slurping the wetness he’d created, he paired it with his hand pumping him faster than before. Bård’s other hand on his leg felt Vegard tensing; he was almost there. His brother let out a grunt, then a louder moan—he was warning him. Knowing the moment of orgasm was just seconds off, Bård tried to pull back and away but the hand against his scalp wouldn’t allow it. Bård whined in protest, but Bjørn didn’t let up, and the panic he was able to shoo away came back to him all at once. Bård’s head held still when his brother’s hips drove hard into his mouth, spilling hot liquid onto the surface of his tongue. The bitterness almost stung. Before he could curl his tongue to spit, his head was jerked back, and a strong palm covered his mouth closed.

"Good boy, Bård. You did so good," Bjørn whispered hot in his ear. Bård leaned back on his heels, the pull on his scalp burning and unrelenting. The smell of Bjørn’s breath ghosted across his face, and Bård’s lips struggled against their cover. “Now swallow.” The semen slid around in his mouth, trying to settle in one place but Bård wouldn’t let it. The fear of it slipping down his throat roared a cry of disgust in his racing mind, running out of time and Bjørn’s patience. “I said, swallow.” Bjørn tore Bård’s head upward, forcing them both to stand. Bård grimaced and nearly stumbled on his numb legs, but Bjørn sidled his body close behind him—a threatening and suppotive gesture. His hand moved from his scalp down to his neck, where his fingers dug into his throat, clenching harder than Bård thought possible. He blinked his eyes rapidly against the squeezing pain, when Bjørn placed the gun on the other side of his neck. Bård remembered where he was, who was in control, and he swallowed.

“There, that’s good.” Bjørn released grip, and Bård opened his mouth a sliver for air. He didn’t want to move his mouth, taste any more of the remnants of his brother’s release. His eagerness to do as he was told—finish his brother and complete the task—was draining from his body. The glimmers of that temporary hope began to leave Bård as Bjørn snaked an arm around his waist, stroking the skin under his shirt and rocking them back and forth. His hand trailed up and down Bård’s stomach, the clipped fingernails leaving goosebumps in their wake when Bjørn placed his lips against Bård’s neck.

“How do you like having part of your brother inside of you? Hm? It’s good, huh?” Sharp canines nipped at the skin on Bård’s neck and he struggled to stay silent. The hand rubbing his stomach inched down further, stopping just over his groin. In a moment of fear, Bård was unsure how his body would react if he continued any further. He wasn’t even sure what kind of reaction he was currently having; most of his body felt numb from adrenaline. Then the gun sank from the underside of his chin, down, down his back until the barrel prodded between his legs. Bård flinched, his lower body retracting away with what little space Bjørn’s arm allowed him. “I would have him really be inside you, ride his dick until you’re coming all over yourself…” A pang of fear, nerves, and something unplaceable shot from the top of Bård’s head to the tip of his toes, his lungs picking up speed. He barely registered the breathy laugh against his skin before the teeth clamped down, hard—maybe piercing the flesh—Bård couldn’t tell beyond the searing sting and his own cry. “But that would feel too good. And I don’t want you to feel good.” 

Tears welled in Bård's eyes. Bjørn's words were lazy, musing—the sounds of a man who was deeply enjoying himself. "I used to watch you when we were in school. I used to think so many things about you." Bjørn's tongue lapped over the bitten spot, soothing the burn of punctured holes in his neck. 

"Did you ever think about me, Bård?" The hand with the gun slipped around to his front, settling in between his legs. Bård shut his eyes tight as the other soon joined it. Bjørn's embrace held him in place like a harness whose tether he couldn't escape. The free hand massaged over his groin, and Bård tried to remain still. Resistance didn't work, nothing did. He only bit the inside of his lip, waiting for it to be over. He heard Vegard rustling in front of them, and Bjørn's hand inched up, before reaching back down and burrowing into his pants—making contact with his skin. When he grabbed hold of Bård, soft pressure squeezing and releasing, Bjørn's voice appeared at his ear. 

"Are you thinking of me now?"


	5. Chapter 5

Vegard screamed beneath the tape. Bård didn't want to open his eyes, but the cries got louder and the chair rocking more frantic while Bjørn had his way. He bit Bård again, teeth entering the same marks he'd made before. Bård let the tears fall down from beneath his eyelids, but he withheld the sobs. He wouldn't let him have everything. Every touch, stroke, stripped so much away as it was. He was tied, held fast by the man behind him like a stake he was being burned at. The physical violation was his crucifixion—the growing heat from the fast moving palm were the flames that nipped and melted his flesh. When the clack of the chair legs hitting the concrete smacked harder, with less time between, Bjørn's hand and mouth froze. 

"Always interrupting. Always ruining my moment with your brother." 

The hands were gone, so were the lips. Bård stumbled when his support left, and he fell to a knee. He struggled to catch his breath, realizing he had been holding it for much of the assault. In his eye line Bjørn's figure kneeled, perched above the toolbox that sat shut. The dull sound of metal parts moving and clanking together drew his gaze. Bjørn's hand reached into the box, sifting through the contents and pulling out an item. He swiveled his crouch until he faced Bård. In his left hand he held the gun, the right the wrench he spied earlier.      

"Which do you think will hurt more?" he asked. Bård made no response, though it looked like Bjørn was waiting for one. "This one has more weight to it," he turned the pistol over in his hand. "But this..." Bjørn brought the wrench up to his eyes, viewing it like an old toy—with warmth, and nostalgia. "The edge is sharp at the top. It can cut, if you strike just right. What do you think?" He looked at Bård again, whose lips quivered against his will. A thousand thoughts raced through his mind, a voice screaming at him _say something, anything, stall him, say something, wait wait wait wait_.

Bjørn shrugged at his silence, stood and turned to Vegard. Before either could flinch, the wrench lashed out, connecting with Vegard's ribs. He lurched forward, issuing a sound unlike anything Bård had ever heard him make. The cry was loud, high pitched, and seemed to die before it finished its intended call. It rung inside Bård's chest, and his own lungs picked up the cry where his brother's left off. Bjørn turned at the sound, bringing his finger to his lips.

"Shhh. I want you to listen, Bård. I want you to listen to his bones crack." 

Bård panted loudly, Bjørn holding his gaze as his lungs worked faster. Vegard's frame in the chair heaved, head hung down so Bård couldn't see his face. Bjørn turned around, and pushed Vegard's torso upright.

He hit him again. Then again, marking out his blows almost rhythmically. He worked on his ribcage, seeming to concentrate on each individual rib for a period before moving on to the next. Bård watched. He wanted to close his eyes, but to look away would be to abandon his brother in the pain. The rage steaming from the clench in Bjørn's teeth was something Bård only saw glimpses of before. Now it was real, it was fire, and it was scalding him from the inside. For every noise of hurt his brother made, Bård made one of his own, anguished and forming a stream of base words to end the suffering. He was begging.  

"Please," Bård's request took a louder, coherent form. "Please, please—"

"What, you change your mind?" Bjørn glanced back. Bård continued, spitting out the words with no breath left, only his lips moving to a voiceless plea. "You want this one instead?" Bjørn traded the gun and wrench between his hands. "Very well."

He struck. Vegard's face. His collar bones. His knee caps. At some point Vegard stopped making noise, looking limp in his seat. Then Bjørn would move to a new spot and he would rouse again, throwing his head back with the hit. Bård was crying, though it looked like Vegard was beyond tears. Bård could barely fathom the pain he was in, but he wished he could know it all. Watching was worse than feeling, he thought. It had to be. There was nothing more awful that he had ever felt. 

"Stop! Please, please please stop. Stop stop stop—"

"No, Bård. No stopping," Bjørn called over his shoulder, never ceasing the battery. "This is how you two will learn."

"I don't care," Bård shouted, voice cracking in his dry throat. "Just stop! Hurt me, please!" Bård had long since fallen to a crouch, arms barely able to support him on the ground. He craned his neck forward, as if it could reach him closer. "Stop. Stop." He crawled forward, a foreign energy sweeping his body and propelling him on. "Stop it! Hurt me instead, I don't care. No more." Finding himself at Bjørn's feet, he pushed himself up, grabbing a hold of the the man's jeans. He tugged, pulling himself further up. Bjørn looked down, momentarily distracted from his task. Bård took note of the pause, and when Bjørn raised his arm again, he grabbed on with all his strength, pulling the arm and gun down to himself. "STOP!"

Bjørn struggled against Bård's grasp, but he held on past the limits of his strength—to the surprise of them both. Fed up, Bjørn shook his arm with a final move, and Bård fell back on the concrete. His head whipped against the hard surface, digging into the spot already bruised from earlier abuse. He almost closed his eyes, when he noticed the tall figure approaching him. Focusing his gaze, the burning fury that accompanied his brother's beating bore down on him.   

"You want me to hurt you, Bård? Fine. You get your wish."

Bård had enough time to cower, to raise his arms over his face. It left his torso exposed and unprotected, the perfect target for attack. Bjørn dropped his knee onto the soft, pillowy section under Bård's ribs, forcing all the breath out of his lungs. He placed the tip of the gun against the underside of Bård's chin, and flipped the wrench in his hand—the open end pointed for use. The pronged edges were sharp, enough to pierce skin. But not like a knife or glass. They required speed and force to tear, not cut the skin. Bjørn provided this force; he rucked up Bård's shirt, then sent the metal driving and pulling along his ribs—he pushed hard enough for the tool to bob against each one like it was running across a washboard. His flesh ripped in jagged tracks up and down his sides. Blood was slow to pool in their wake, the wounds dull and searing in their own state of shock.   

Bård cried out in silence, air locked out of his chest with the weight of a man pressing down into him. For each stab—which there seemed to be countless—he whipped his head and squirmed his legs. Fingers curled and clawed at the concrete floor, scratching out his dying fight. He looked at his brother in the frenzy, a stillness creeping in his limbs after a time. Vegard's neck bent forward, and through the flattened curls Bård could see his eyes had closed. His chest rose and fell steadily; he only slept. Bård welcomed the sleep crowding into his own vision, taking him away from the pain he foolishly begged for. 

Blurry came in from all sides, slinking up his legs and knees, then past his chest. It fell over his shoulders and landed soft on his cheeks. Blurry draped itself across his forehead like a compress, sliding down into his eyes. He blinked twice, before he realized he didn't need to fight. Unconsciousness was a blessed gift. 

_THUMP_

It wasn't numbness, as Bård first thought, but an actual stop. The grunting, towering man halted to the sound, and looked about the room, cocking his head in the following silence. 

_THUMP_

Bård looked up to the ceiling, the same as Bjørn. The sound continued again, in a fainter, uneven pattern. Bård nearly cursed the sound, he was so close to being free of the pain, when he noticed the change on Bjørn's face. His eyes were wide and at each consequent sound after the first, his bottom lip sucked closer between his teeth. Bjørn was afraid.  

A cough broke out from Bård's chest, sending him gasping for breath. Bjørn looked down, like the man pinned beneath him had suddenly just appeared. The wrench fell loose from his grip as he focused on the torn mess that had become Bård's skin. His fingers reached out, dabbing in the blood that trickled out of the lashes. He brought his hand close to his face; the marks of deep horror were evident. Bård's chest rattled again, and Bjørn looked into his eyes. His expression passed through several stages, ending with a deeply furrowed brow and lips struggling to form words.

"Bård," he whispered, and brought the bloody hand to caress his cheek. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry oh god—"

The sound of moving, weight shifting above them called their attention. Bjørn jumped, and looked to the noise. His hand on Bård's cheek stilled, and when he looked back down, frantic anger pinched his face.  

"Who is that? Who's here?"

Bård shook his head, unable to give voice to his words.

"Did you tell someone where you are? Why is someone here?" The intensity of the inquiries lessened somewhat by Bjørn letting off the pressure of his knee from Bard's diaphragm. 

"I don't know," Bård croaked out.  

"Why is someone here, Bård?" His tone raised, the large handing gripping at his chin. "Who did you tell?"

"No one, I don't know. _I don't know_."

In the close proximity, Bård could see water beginning to form in Bjørn's eyes, the way his lip trembled as belief settled into him. Bård was lying, or at least, he was pretty sure it was a lie. More than likely the source of the noise was Tom, finally arrived at Bård's request from earlier in the cab. But there was no way to be sure. Grimly, Bård realized that even without the lie, it was unlikely Tom would even be able to find them, should he suspect something was wrong. Which he probably wouldn't. Bjørn didn't have a lot to worry about, but his current panic translated to physical reprieve, so he was willing to play along.

Bjørn clenched his hand into a fist mid air; Bård thought for a moment he might bring it down on him. He seemed to change his mind, face lapsing back to concern, before he sat up and backed away from Bård.

"It was him then. He told."

Bjørn turned and rounded on Vegard with gritted teeth. Bård instantaneously knew the mistake he made.

"Hey, wake up." Bjørn pushed his forehead up with the barrel of the pistol, but Vegard's eyes remained largely closed. As Bjørn pestered him further, the whites of his eyes peeked out from under his eyelids. "Wake up!" Bjørn slapped Vegard across the face, and his neck held itself straight once more. He took in several quick, loud breaths, before his eyes focused on the tall frame looming above him.

"Who did you tell?" Bjørn asked. His body remained stock still, while Vegard shook in little shivers, as if reacting to cold streams traveling across his skin. He regained his consciousness and bearings, but made no further acknowledgement of Bjørn. "Huh?" He slapped Vegard's face, but he wouldn't meet his eyes. "Who did you tell?"

Bjørn bent himself to Vegard's eye level, and reached out to place a hand against his chest. "Tell me." Bård couldn't see his face, but heard the clench in his jaw. He was given no response.

At once Vegard made a loud sound that nearly stopped Bård's heart. He couldn't see how he was being hurt, but it was worse than the sound he previously made.

"Who did you tell you were here, god damn it!" Bjørn raised his voice over the repeated cry from his brother. Bård's heart leapt back into action, thudding endlessly against his ribs. His ribs. Bård realized then exactly what Bjørn was doing. The subtle movement, the press of his open palm against Vegard's bones created some kind of pain Bård didn't have words for. If a small movement like that hurt him, the damage was worse than he thought. Vegard cried again. Every bone had to be shattered. Tears poured from his eyes and spilled over the black tape. His lungs could collapse any second. It had to stop.

"I told someone," Bård yelled, though his voice was so much weaker than he knew. "I told someone we were here."

Bjørn turned back, face fallen and mouth slack. He said nothing, but his hand rested still on Vegard's chest. Bård panted and tried again.

"It's the sound engineer. I told him to meet us at the theater. That's him up there. I called him. It was me."

Bjørn didn't react for a moment, but Bård watched as his blank face soured, mouth downturning into a frown. His eyes widened, perhaps even glistened, as the look of genuine hurt and sadness consumed his expression.

"No, god why, why Bård." He took his hand from Vegard's rapidly exhaling chest and brought it in front of his eyes. He was crying, the gun joining the other hand and pressing against his brow. Bård swallowed; fleeting thoughts whispered to use his vulnerability and blindness as an opportunity. There wasn't enough time. Bjørn looked up at Bård, tears lining his red-rimmed eyes.

"Why did you have to do that, Bård?" he asked in a small voice. He stood as his breath shook. "Now it's all _ruined_." He punctuated his frustration by kicking the toolbox, sliding away only a foot. "Now it has to end." He held the gun with both his hands, looking down at it in his palms.     

"N-no it doesn't," Bård pleaded. 

"Yes it does." He walked to the center of the room, pointing at the ceiling. "He's up there; he'll find us, and then it's over."

"He won't, I promise he won't." Bård's throat scratched and Bjørn seemed to consider his words. Then he shook his head, anger returning.

"This is your fault, Bård,  _your_  fault. I wanted...I was supposed to teach you." His fire snuffed itself out, and the hollowed giant showed its face again. "You were—you were going to—" He wiped his streaming eyes with the back of his hand, and sucked in a big breath. 

"I can still do whatever you want." Bård's voice was meek. He wanted his brother, himself to live. It didn't make sense to live after what he was willing to do, but he'd do it. Bjørn looked over, a flash of affection swooping his features. 

He kneeled down beside Bård, cradled his head in his large hand. Bård remained stiff to the touch, eyes looking away from Bjørn's stare. He frowned.

"It doesn't matter. It didn't work." He ran his hand down Bård's shoulder, and when he grazed his bloodied side, Bård winced. Bjørn pulled his hand back quickly, before another heaving breath overcame him. "And I... I hurt you." 

He looked into Bård's eyes, and he met them. He felt the sincerity, the remorse. It was almost like he was apologizing, and Bård, for everything, for their lives, accepted.  

"Please," he whispered back. Bjørn bored his gaze into Bård's waiting one, the wild look almost tamed. Bård blinked for but a moment, and then the mercy was gone. His mouth was set in a disappointed grimace and he stood, hands falling from his captive. 

"No. No, it's over." He stood, shaking out his arm and pointed the gun at the center of Bård's forehead. His eyes widened, panic hitting him. 

"You don't have to—" he rushed out, but Bjørn came over, grabbed his arm and pulled. 

"We're all going to take a turn, don't worry." He dragged Bård closer to his brother, placing his kneeling form directly in front of Vegard. "Just sit."

"Please—"

"Trust me, it's better this way." He lined up his gun with the side of Bård's head, peering down the end of the pistol. "You want to go first."

"I—I... Just. Don't, d-don't..." His breath came hard and fast, hyperventilation the only process his body could allow. No thoughts, no words. Life was about to end, and he was already devolving, losing what little he had to survive.

Vegard stared at Bård, but he could barely see it. His vision was blurring as Bjørn walked around to Vegard's chair.  

"Alright, say your goodbyes." He ripped the tape off of Vegard's mouth in one quick pull. Vegard wasted no time in speaking.

"Please, I’ll do anything." His voice was shockingly clear and loud. He looked Bjørn dead in the eyes, face void of anger or sadness or fear. There was only his dire intent. "Kill me, please, just leave him alone." 

"You’re wasting your time." He pulled a watch from the pocket of his jeans and looked at its face. "You have ten more seconds." Bård whimpered and Vegard turned his attention to his brother. His shoulders convulsed on their own, tears now flooding his eyes.

"Look at me, Bård. Just keep looking at me," Vegard called. Bård tore his gaze up at the sound, and forced himself to focus on the sight before him. "It’s going to be ok. I love you. I love you so much, Bård." His brother's face began to falter.

"I’m scared- Vegard I’m scared." Violent sobs followed his fevered words. 

Bjørn rocked back and forth, impatient, and pressed the tip of the gun flush against Bård's temple. He looked over, crippling fear, and Vegard called his attention again.

"Shh, it’s ok. Hey! Don’t look at him, just look at me."

When Bård looked back, Vegard's face was streaked with tears as well. They fell fast despite his even voice.

"I love you," Vegard rushed out once more. His voice cracked and his face scrunched up.

"Five...four..."

"I love you," Bård choked out, hurried. "I’m sorry. I love you I love you. Fuck." 

Labored breathing. Counting. The seconds whizzed by their rocketing fear.

"It’s ok Bård I love you I—" 

"One."

 _Bård?_  

Bjørn turned his head to the door behind them at the foreign voice. Next, his legs buckled beneath him and he fell to the floor—Vegard had launched himself at the man, still tied to the chair. Bård recognized the dull crack as Bjørn's skull connecting with the concrete floor. The two lay on the ground, Vegard's weight restricting Bjørn's flailing limbs. The gun had fallen from his grasp, and Bård on shaky knees sprung to retrieve it. He grabbed it with both hands, held it close to his chest.

 _Bård? Where are you?_ a voice echoed in the hall outside. 

Vegard groaned, pain and effort spilling from his mouth and Bård's head cleared. 

"Help," he said, fighting against his tightly closed throat. "Help. HELP" He backed away toward the door, and placed the pistol in his shaking hand. He pointed it toward their general direction. If he had to shoot for their lives, he would have missed. Someone bumped into Bård's retreating form and he turned, yelping. 

From the moment Tom came in, Bård's cognizance moved like molasses. He knew the basic facts of what happened: Tom rushed over, helped his brother, called someone—called to Bård at one point to hand him the gun. There was a part in the next fifteen minutes where Bjørn was the hostage until the police arrived; the irony was lost on Bård. 

He remembered fumbling his hands in the toolbox on the floor, pulling out a pair of pliers. The image of Vegard's bloody, deeply cut wrists where he struggled against the zip ties stuck in Bård's head for the next few days, the way someone gets a song stuck in their head. It replayed over and over; the puffy, swollen face and dark blue marks on his clavicles. That was what Bård could see. 

He looked at Vegard and saw damage, injury, his own fault screaming and tearing and bleeding—and that was it. So, he didn't see him. For a month. 


	6. Chapter 6

The wine glass clicked against Vegard's teeth each time he brought it to his mouth. He wasn't drunk by any means, but the virtual darkness of the restaurant paired with slow, stupid music lulled him into a kind of carelessness that disregarded these kinds of mistakes. The conversation was exceptionally dull as well. It wasn't anyone's fault. His parents tried their best to keep a lively dialogue among the four of them, but it was difficult when they constantly feared saying something wrong. Bård was doing that dumb, annoying thing where he'd keep basically silent unless he was directly addressed, and even then it was pulling teeth. The loudest guy Vegard knew, and yet when he finally needed his chatter he was a fucking mute. Typical. 

"So," their mother began. "Your little brother says he might come visit next month." She smiled with pursed lips, looking between her two sons. "Isn't that exciting?"

Vegard waited to respond, trying to force Bård to speak before him for once. However, Vegard didn't have the will to play awkward-silence-chicken for long, and spoke between a sip.

"Oh really?" he asked, setting his glass down.

"He says he can take off for a week or so." She poured herself more wine from the diminishing bottle that sat on the table. Vegard looked at his brother, who nodded to no one in particular.

"This will be a great opportunity," their father said, swallowing his food and taking another stab with his fork. "For you three to spend some time together." He looked at his boys, an eye of suspicion shifting between each of them. "Right?"

"Yeah," Vegard said. "That could be fun." He looked at Bård, who chased around a steamed carrot on his plate.

"I can give you boys the cabin, how does that sound?" Their father smiled slyly, his laugh lines collecting on his face. "Just try not to destroy anything. I know how you three can be."

Their mother giggled gleefully, dimples pinching on her rosy cheeks. She was pretty tipsy. The brothers gave no further response, though Vegard could tell Bård was getting uncomfortable by the disparity of moods at the table. 

"I'm just so lucky," she said after a moment, "to have you two."   

She placed her hand on top of Vegard's beside her, grinning at him and Bård. Her other hand reached across the table, palm up for Bård to grab. She was always saying how lucky she was these days. It made Vegard want to slap her. Bård stared at his mother's waiting hand, making no indication of movement on his part. She retracted her arm from the table with a pinched smile. 

Their waiter approached the table, appearing at Bård's side. He looked startled, maybe even frightened, and discreetly scooted to the edge of his seat farthest from the man.

"How are you all doing so far?" He looked around the table, eyes lingering on Bård's avoidant gaze. "Can I offer you something for dessert?"

It took Vegard less than two seconds to process that adding any more time to their meal than necessary would be borderline torture—for him and Bård. 

"No, we're fine. Just the check please," Vegard spoke up.

"Hold on now," their mother whined. "Let's at least see what they have on the menu." 

Bård's eyes locked with Vegard's for a moment, initiating a kind of dialogue for the first time all evening. 

"No, mom, really. I don't want anything. Bård doesn't either."

"You didn't even ask him! Come on, you deserve it." 

Vegard's skin prickled in hot irritation around his shoulders. _You deserve it._ He hated how everyone congratulated him just for existing. They did it constantly—it's not like he accomplished anything since it happened. They acted like getting up every morning, even just living with himself was some sort of grand feat. To him, it made the vague implication that they expected him to _not_ live, like it was surprising he hadn't offed himself already. He was probably over thinking it. There wasn't much else for him to do but think these days, especially after they stopped working.  But by now he was deft at deflecting these kinds of situations. 

"It's just if I eat too much, or get too full, it presses up on my ribs..." He motioned in front of his abdomen, adding a faked grimace for effect. "It's still a little tender is all."

The cheer drained from his mother's face at once. Mentioning anything even remotely unpleasant became a sin as of late. Her expression certainly looked like she'd just done something deserving of hellfire. 

"Of course, of course," she sputtered, flustered. "Just the check." Her impatient eyes urged the waiter away, while Bård and their father worked on their best impressions of obliviousness. 

The man lingered at their table, staring at Vegard now. His eyes hovered around Vegard's chest, trying to get a look at the damage he implied. When he caught his gaze, he shifted his eyes guiltily. The prick recognized them after all, Vegard thought. He was wondering the whole night if the guy was genuinely ignorant, or if he was playing dumb for a better tip. Vegard managed to get the bill paid and the whole family out of the restaurant within the next seven minutes. 

> Vegard only remembered that he'd already asked how long he had been there when he got the answer. The nurse's response was slow and patient, her voice reminding him it had been two days. He knew that, kind of, though time was pretty hard to keep track of in the state he was in. Fairly often he found himself less interested in his bedside television and instead the slow even drip of morphine flowing into his IV. He would stare at it, for minutes, or hours, attempting to drown out all other sound but the faint patter of each drop.
> 
> A nice plump woman with stringy blond hair waited next his bed while he finished his dinner, making sure he ate all of it. Either because of the painkillers or the general restriction of movement, it was a challenge. She put her hand on his shoulder, patting it now and then when he took a pause between bites, catching his breath. As doped up as he was it still felt condescending, and his wish for her to leave him alone was enough motivation for him to clean his plate.
> 
> When she had gone, she left a pitcher of water and a plastic glass on the moving tray beside his bed, and turned off the overhead light to the room. He closed his eyes and feigned sleep by the time she reached the door, and she clicked it shut without another word. He waited before opening his eyes, the light of the TV blaring back at him. He could turn it off, he never really watched it, but he appreciated the noise. He could use that to his advantage anyway.
> 
> It took him over a minute to sit up and get his head to stop spinning. Swiveling his lower body so his legs hung over the side of the bed was a bit easier. He thought the nurse must have upped his dosage a little after his meal, as he couldn't feel pain, only the difficulty to move. He focused his gaze on the empty bed across from him, and pulled out his IV in one quick tug. Little drops from the needle leaked onto the sheets as he slid his feet to the floor. The tile was cold, but he pushed himself upright and stumbled with heavy feet toward the door.
> 
> As he passed it, his swinging arm connected with the corner of the moving tray, knocking the pitcher and water all over the floor. It clacked its plastic ringing loud in the room, and Vegard fell against the bed in surprise. He froze, waiting for someone to run down the hall and enter his room, catching him in his escape. No one came. He breathed hard, delighting at the absence of aching in his chest, and gained confidence to move forward once more. 
> 
> He looked through the small glass window before creaking open the door. The hallway was lit but only dimly so; the hum and beeps of machinery played quietly like synthetic crickets in the hospital night. He padded into the hall, looking both ways before heading right, only his intuition to guide him.     
> 
> The ward felt like a maze, turning and hooking into indiscernable loops while he focused on the name plaques outside each room. He hurried along, only looking for a tell-tale Y to pause his pace. It occurred to him at the same time that a dull burn erupted in his side that his brother could be in an entirely different ward. Each time his right heel connected with the hard floor, the vibrations traveled up his leg and rattled something in his chest that made him cringe. The clarity of pain worsened as he sobered, and he slowed his walk to more of a concentrated hobble.
> 
> He heard voices approaching from around the corner, and made a sharp left that turned into another ward. From the moment he pushed open the doors, he felt the tone was different. This was someplace busier, more casual, and there were active voices echoing through the halls and from the rooms. Vegard looked left into the window of the room beside him, the sound of the doors swinging shut behind him. The light was still on inside, illuminating the foot of a hospital bed, most of it shrouded in a curtain. Beyond it was a chair, and on top was piled a heap of clothes and a backpack. He looked, blinked, and kept looking. He knew those things. Knew the body that wore them. Vegard turned sharply to the grab the handle and doubled over from the pain of his twisting torso. 
> 
> "Are you alright?" a woman's voice asked. Vegard felt the hand land on his shoulder blade as he panted, keeping his face pointed to the floor. He bit his cheek, pushing down the throbbing in his sides as he tried to slow his lungs. "Sir, you need to get back to your bed."
> 
> The woman came around in front of him, placing both her hands on his shoulders and gently lifting his upper body. When they made eye contact, when she saw his face, there was no mistaking the recognition. He supposed everyone already knew—who he was, what had happened. 
> 
> "That's my brother's room." He looked in her eyes, pleading. Sympathy coated her frown.
> 
> "I'm sorry, but I'll have to take you back—"
> 
> "Please," he added. "Is he alright? They haven't told me anything."
> 
> Her face softened and she looked over her shoulder, lowering her voice.
> 
> "He's fine, just a lot of stitches and some rest for his concussion. They're releasing him tomorrow, if I'm not mistaken."
> 
> Vegard breathed a sigh, hand flying up to his chest when his lungs expanded too far. His subsequent grunt was poorly hidden. The nurse pulled up to his side, supporting his arm.
> 
> "Ok, let's get back now."
> 
> "Wait," he resisted her pull. "Can I see him?"
> 
> "I really can't," she started, but Vegard could see how weak her will was. 
> 
> "Please? I just need to make sure he's ok." The woman's blue eyes darted around them as she chewed her lip. "Please."
> 
> She sighed and released his arm, looking through the window in the door.
> 
> "I'll see if he's awake." She turned the handle and looked back to Vegard. "Wait here."
> 
> Vegard managed to stand straight, looking through the crack in the door she left open. He saw the silhouette of feet under the starch white sheets; they moved a little. The television at the foot of the bed babbled on just as the one in Vegard's room did. He listened harder, stepping closer to the opening to hear the whispers inside. He could almost recognize his brother's voice through the laugh track on the TV. Then the nurse was back at the door, and he leaned away to make room for her to exit and shut it behind her.
> 
> "I'm sorry," she said, eyes avoiding Vegard's. "He's not..." She trailed off and he waited for her to continue, but became impatient.
> 
> "He's not what? Is he ok?"
> 
> "Yes, yes he's fine." She looked at his eyes then, pinching her smile and touching his arm. "He's just not seeing anyone right now." Vegard looked back at her, confusion clear in his furrowed brow. She wasn't lying, he could tell. She was a nice woman, she would have let him see his brother if he was awake. It was Bård who refused. His lungs beat against his broken ribs and he felt like he could cry. 
> 
> "Come on, I'll help you get back." The nurse grabbed a wheelchair parked vacant in the hall, and sat Vegard in it. He hissed with the move, pain worse than he'd felt since his injuries were inflicted. When he was settled she wheeled him backwards, pulling him out through the swinging doors. He could still hear the canned laughter spilling out of Bård's room.   
> 
>  
> 
> They wouldn't release Vegard for a full two weeks. They wanted to make sure his lungs wouldn't collapse, given how severely his rib cage was damaged. The doctors stopped the morphine after five days, leading to non-stop aching and restlessness. It hurt when he moved, it hurt when he ate, it hurt when he breathed. Visitors provided bits of respite, though they tended to never stay longer than half an hour. Bård never came. Vegard's mind jumped to several hundred different conclusions, countless and equally dire reasons for his distance. The unpleasant implications provided a rather dangerous physical discomfort: his lungs sped up when he thought too hard about it, about where Bård was, what he was doing, how he was feeling, how he felt about him now. It made his sternum throb like the fusing bones were wrenching open again, and more than once nurses rushed into the room at the loud beeping his heart monitor started to make. For everyone's sake, he put it out of his mind as much as possible. Though when he slept, he couldn't resist asking if anyone had stopped by while he was out. The answer was always a pitying no. 
> 
> After his release, he texted Bård asking if he was ok, if they could meet up. He received no reply. He called one weekend and didn't leave a voicemail. Ten days later, he texted him again, asking if he was there. Wherever "there" was (Vegard didn't really know), Bård wasn't. He stopped trying to find him, and tried desperately not to care.

The four Ylvisåkers stood on the street corner across from their parent's hotel. Vegard engaged in minor chit chat with his mother about their plans for the next day, and how they likely wouldn't see them again before their flight out. Bård looked at his phone, scrolling with his thumb at an even pace. Vegard wanted to know what he was looking at, what could possibly be occupying him in this very moment that he couldn't tear his attention away from to properly say goodbye to their parents. It would be easy to reach out and smack the phone from his hand; Bård was standing close enough.

"Well, darlings," their mother said, looking between her two boys. Bård looked up from his phone, but kept it in his hand. "I suppose this is good night."

"Okay," Vegard said, stepping forward and kissing his mother on the cheek. When he stepped back, she held onto his arm tightly, eyes misty. He gave her a quick smile and moved to his father, each embracing for only a matter of seconds with rough pats on the back.

"Now, Bård," their mother started, standing in front of her son. She put both hands on his forearms. "Do you have everything you need for tonight?"

"Mhm." Bård shrugged the backpack on his shoulder and glanced at their father, who crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes at his son.

"It's been less than a year since you moved into that apartment, isn't it?" their father spoke up. "Why do you need it painted again so soon? And all at once too, you could have spaced it out a bit. Then you wouldn't have to stay at your brother's at all."

It wasn't Bård's request, and it wasn't Vegard's invitation. It was sort of a given though, once their parents knew, that it was the situation that would be arranged. Vegard was always tasked to take care of his little brother for inconveniences like these. He was a little surprised that Bård hadn't made more of a fuss when their mother declared the solution. There was little predictability in Bård's behavior anymore.

Bård shot his eyes to the floor, and he shrugged half-heartedly. 

"Oh leave him alone, you know how Bård is. Loves to go all-in with things. And there's nothing wrong with a fresh start, is there?" She turned her attention back to her son. "Now if you're missing anything, you need an extra towel or pajamas, just borrow it from Vegard, all right?"

"Mom, he's fine." Vegard whined. His brother was not five years old, regardless of how immature he behaved. 

"I know, I just..." She looked at her eldest son and flashed him an embarrassed smile. "Oh come here, sweetheart." She buried her son in a tight hug, clinging to Bård's stiff body. His fingers didn't bend around her body as he embraced her back; his hands laid like flat squares of cardboard against the angle of her sides.

She released him, and their father stepped forward to share an even less affectionate hug. Vegard waved and stepped away toward the quieter end of the street, Bård following quickly. He matched his pace, stepping right beside him and lightly bumping his arm into Vegard's.   

"They fucked up my order at the restaurant," Bård said. Vegard turned his head to look at his brother, whose face had brightened significantly since leaving their parents.

"Oh, really?" Vegard asked. He wondered if Bård could hear his hesitancy at the sudden the shift.

"Yeah, I asked for my pasta without garbanzo beans in it, but they left them in." His little brother chuckled, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. "Who puts garbanzo beans in pasta anyway, that's just fucking bizarre." He looked at Vegard with a smile, perhaps searching for camaraderie. Vegard was just confused.  

"You could have sent it back," he answered. What was this conversation anyway? Why was he entertaining his brother's musings about his food order? He picked up his stroll to a more hurried trot, wanting to get back to his car as quickly as possible.

"Nah, it was okay, actually. Besides, I was feeling a little adventurous." He turned his head to Vegard, who didn't respond. "Unlike _someone_. You get the same thing every time we go there."

"Yeah..." Vegard said. He scanned the line of cars parked on the street, it couldn't be too far now.

"What is it that you get again?" Bård asked. This was especially annoying, as he clearly knew the answer since he was able to notice that it was always the same. He didn't want to talk to his brother. If he was going to stay silent when it mattered, he didn't get to speak when it didn't. But saying anything like that would be too confrontational, and all he really wanted was for Bård to shut up. 

"Chicken parmesan."

"Right, chicken parmesan. I don't actually think I've tried that one from there. Is it any good?"

Vegard side-eyed him. The sound was grating on his nerves, every moment of pointless chatter angering him a little more. He reigned it in, breathing deep in the night air, disguising his sighs as cold shudders.

"Yes, Bård."

"Well, yeah, I guess it must be since you always order it. That was a dumb question." He smiled and looked at his shoes; Vegard detected a hint of nervousness. He was acting like a teenager on their first date, saying stupid, unnecessary bullshit just to fill the silence. 

"Why are you being weird?" Vegard asked, and the gobsmacked look on Bård's face might have been funny if he were in a better mood.

"What? I'm not being weird." Bård slowed his walk, and Vegard had to turn his head to talk back. 

"Yes you are. You were weird with mom and dad too."

"I don't know what you're talking about." Bård had nearly stopped walking, but Vegard pressed on. He could see his car on the other side of the street, and stepped off the curb.

"Whatever." 

He heard Bård's sneakers smacking against the damp pavement to catch up, didn't look at him as he climbed into the driver's seat. Bård slammed his door shut and buckled his seatbelt, waited for Vegard to turn on the engine. He didn't drive away immediately after turning the key, because this was where Bård would turn on the radio, by the standard ritual. Vegard paused, and looked at his brother when his hands stayed in his lap. Bård caught his gaze for a moment and Vegard bit the inside of his cheek, stepping on the gas and pulling into the dark street.

The car ride was strange and silent, but not the kind of silence they were accustomed to. Normally, Bård slumped against the window, looking out until his eyes fluttered shut. It was a talent Vegard envied that he could shut his brain off so suddenly and consistently. Now Bård sat up in his seat, leaving space between his back and the padded gray cushion; the seatbelt strained against his body that leaned forward. Vegard noticed these things, but felt glad for the spared moments of talk and so ignored his brother's odd position. The whole drive he sat perched, almost as if Vegard was talking and he was waiting for his turn to butt in. But there was nothing, no sound, no speech, just the humming engine and the pavement flying beneath the wheels.

 

When they walked through the threshold of Vegard's apartment, Bård heaved a contented sigh. He stepped ahead and threw his backpack onto Vegard's couch, while taking off his jacket and tossing it on the coffee table in front of it.  

Bård lived in Vegard’s apartment on and off over the last two or three years, when Bård’s various housing decisions had gone south time and again. He’d never stayed longer than a few weeks, but would manage to colonize the corner of the living room where the couch was. Even so, there were plenty of nights where Bård or Vegard would come home after the other had fallen asleep, and were too tired to get the other one to move out of the bed. More often than not, Vegard would wake up for a few moments in the night to his brother’s legs brushing against his before falling back asleep without a struggle. Anything like that was unthinkable now to Vegard. One of them would be sleeping on the couch. He didn’t care who.   

"So you're okay sleeping out here tonight?" Vegard asked. Bård looked at him, wide-eyed.

"Huh? Oh, sure, whatever's easiest."

"Well you already have your stuff out here, so." Bård nodded in return, and Vegard scratched the back of his neck. "Right, I'm going to bed."

"What? It's only 9:30." Bård walked into the adjoining kitchen space, opening the refrigerator.

"Yeah, well I'm tired." Not true really, or if he was tired, he wouldn't sleep. One of several difficulties he developed in their time apart. Bård peered at the contents of the fridge, his discerning gaze turned displeased and he opened the freezer.

"I think I'm going to eat something," Bård said, scanning the items.

"We just ate dinner." 

"Yeah, but that pasta left a weird taste in my mouth." He pulled out a frozen pizza from the back, read the label on the package. He showed it to his brother. "Is it ok if I have this?"

He usually didn't ask permission. Vegard shrugged. "Sure, go ahead."

Bård turned to the oven and cranked the dial, calling over his shoulder. "You want some?"

"No, I'm going to bed."

"Come on, just eat some. Once you smell it you'll be mad that you have to get out of bed to come grab a slice." Bård smiled, showing his teeth. Vegard rolled his eyes, but took a seat on the side of the couch unoccupied by Bård's belongings. 

They watched a TV show as they munched on the pizza, greasy napkins serving as their plates. Bård laughed too loudly at the things on the screen. His brother's light giggle was typically enough to rouse a good mood out of Vegard, but not tonight. He didn't laugh with him, just chewed on the spongey bread and cheese. By the end of the half hour, he still hadn't laughed, but he didn't necessarily want to leave either.

Bård tossed his dirty napkin at the coffee table, while Vegard walked to the kitchen to throw his in the trash. Like on autopilot, he pulled two mugs from his cupboard and boiled water. He took out instant cocoa packets and dropped the powder in the cups.

He walked back to Bård with the mugs in each hand, and stared. He had sweatpants on now, and his shirt was off. There were dark, raised lines running up and down Bård's sides. He took in as much of the sight as he could before Bård pulled on a white t-shirt. He knew they existed, but never really thought about them in a real context—what it would actually look like. His skin was pale, like he hadn't seen the sun in months, and the pink-red lines carved into his rib cage looked stark on their canvas. He vaguely remembered the moment, the flurry of pain and awareness that something had happened to his brother. He woke up, seeing Bård's bloodied body crouching on the ground, and he felt thankful. He didn't have to see it happen. He was glad, of all things. Vegard still didn't know exactly what caused the marks and scars. Never had the chance to ask, or really wanted to either.  

He approached Bård and extended the mug to him. Bård looked at his outstretched hand and then at Vegard, a small smile creeping onto his face.

"Thanks," he said under his breath. He looked unduly appreciative.

Vegard took a seat on the couch again, sipping his drink while staring at the TV screen, unwatching. He wanted time to go faster, or things to be easier, something to give reprieve for the clenching awkwardness he felt in his stomach. He could be normal. They could be normal. Bård wasn't being annoying, he was just being himself. With no prompting from the other, they rose at the same time, holding their finished cups. They walked to the kitchen, where Vegard took his brother's mug and washed it in the sink. He took more time than needed, scratched at the caked-on chocolate clinging to the rim of the cup. 

When he turned back around Bård was standing over the kitchen table, sifting through a pile of mail stacked in the corner. Vegard stopped beside him, eyeing the paper Bård held. His brother looked it over, a smirk forming on his lips. 

"Erik talked to you too?" he asked.

Their lawyer contacted Vegard several times, trying to persuade him into suing the theater for their agregious lapse in security that day. Vegard had no interest in profiting from his experience. There were only so many ways to say 'please go fuck yourself' in a roundabout way before Vegard started ignoring his calls and letters.

"Are you going to do it?" Bård asked. Vegard snorted, taking the letter from his brother.

"No." He turned the letter over in his hands, noting the numbers that stood out on the page, the sums of what he could get.

"At least we don't have to actually go to court. That's nice," Bård mused, and sat in the chair at the table. It took Vegard a moment to figure out what Bård was talking about, then realized he was referencing their 'spared ordeal.'

Bjørn hung himself in his cell not even a day after his arrest. Vegard was glad he was dead, but it felt too easy. The responsible one was gone from the earth, and now who could he hate? Now where could he place his shame, and anger, and blame for his current state. There was no reason to be afraid anymore. He wanted to know why he still woke up shaking. His counselor said that's how trauma works. It didn't comfort him. He needed to hurt more. Saying Bjørn's death was 'nice' was far too simplistic, possibly inaccurate.

"I guess..." Vegard answered, taking a seat of his own. He played with the cap on a water bottle, twisting the bit of plastic that dangled beneath the lid. Bård splayed his hand across the other letters, his eyes catching one of Vegard's bills for his pilot training. He pulled the paper from its place nestled in the stack, and one of the envelopes on top fell to the floor. Bård paid no mind, scanning the page in his hands instead. Vegard tore off the bit of plastic, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger. 

"Oh wow," Bård muttered, then looked up. "You're finally getting it?"

"Mhm." Vegard didn't return his glance, but could see the light smile on his brother's face from the corner of his eye, Bård's open expression. It made Vegard angry, again. There would be no surprise on Bård's face if things in the last month were different. 

During his hospital stay, he passed the idle hours studying, muddling through the memorization of facts needed to reach the next classification of his pilot's license. When he got out, he paid the large sum (which had prevented him before) to complete his practice hours in the largest aircraft a civilian could fly. In a way it made him sad, because after that there was nothing more to achieve other than becoming a fighter pilot, and there was no way he was going to get involved in the military again. It occurred to him that passing this test wasn't just furthering his hobby anymore, it was securing his future. The way things were, Ylvis was essentially over. Sure, they hadn't legally disbanded yet, but he felt the separation strengthen each day him and Bård didn't speak. When he was alone, the instructor snoozing somewhere in the cabin during the long flight, Vegard would daydream about piloting a commercial plane to another continent, and maybe Bård would be sat in one of the rows. Vegard would come over the loud speaker, telling the passengers about the air quality, their estimated arrival time and the weather in that new place, and maybe his brother wouldn't recognize his voice. They'd soar unknowingly through the air, together, maintaining peace in the silence above the world.    

"That's great," Bård said, placing the paper on top of the pile. 

"Well, I've gotta start investing in my future, after all." He looked up at Bård, and regretted it when he saw his waiting face. "Now that we're..."

"Now that we're what?"

"You know," he ventured, but his brother's face showed nothing but ignorance. It irritated him that Bård was making him voice it out loud. "Now that 'Ylvis' is finished?"

"What?"

Bård's face took on several expressions, from confusion to plain doubt of what he heard. Vegard didn't understand. 

"What, why are you—"

"What do you mean 'finished'? Since when? Who decided that?" Something darker clouded Bård's face when his brows furrowed together.

"Oh come on, Bård. It's obvious we're..." Nothing synced. Bård was obstinate in his bewilderment. But how, how when everything that had happened made it so clear. "We're not working together anymore, are we?" 

"What? Why would you think that?" Bård slid his chair back from the table, staying seated. "Why would you ever think that?" His mouth parted, a downward crescent forming to convey his distress. All of it boiled Vegard's blood, nearly roiling in his veins.   

"What else was I supposed to think?"

"I don't get it, why would you just assume—"

"Where have you been, Bård?" he snapped. His brother closed his mouth, swallowed instead of responding. "Hm? You haven't been here. We haven't spoken, in weeks, in a month."

"I—"

"Stop acting like you give a shit." Vegard hardly noticed his vice grip on the arms of his chair. 

"I do give a shit," Bård said, voice too quiet to convince his brother. There were no weight to his words, but he looked at him like he'd been wronged somehow. It didn't make sense. He was tired of sorting through Bård's emotions, trying to determine his actions and his meanings and every little thing he refused to say. Sick of it. Done.  

"I don't understand you anymore."

He got up, walking toward the couch, and he could get away, retreat to the bedroom if he wished. But he didn't. He wanted to fight. He paused with his back turned, waiting for Bård to say the next line.

"I've been home the whole time," Bård tried. "You could have come to see me."

Vegard turned on his heel, spat back, playing his part.

"You didn't want to see me, Bård. You made that very clear."

"I did want to see you. I did." Bård almost met Vegard's eyes before they darted away again. Liar. Enough. 

"So?" He gestured to his brother who looked away, as if to avoid Vegard's inquisition from even his peripheral vision. "Why didn't you? Why wouldn't you respond to me?"

"I couldn't, I just—"

"Why not?"

"You know why." 

Bård kept looking away and Vegard did know. The spector of it swam in the shadows of his thoughts every second he was with Bård and maybe for a moment he understood his brother's distance.

"The..." Vegard couldn't bring himself to finish his sentence. Bård's grave face was evidence enough that they both knew what they were talking about. They left a pained silence, until Bård rose abruptly, walking past Vegard and sat on the farthest end of the couch. Why did he get close and then make distance? Vegard blinked, waiting for something. Bård curled his fingers in odd ways, and then brought them into balled fists.

"I feel like I should ask you how you feel about it but I don't know what to say." His gaze was fixed somewhere at Vegard's waist height and to his left, focused on an imaginary pinpoint. Vegard gulped, struck by the candidness of his remark. He had no answer. He couldn't answer.

"Do you have someone you talk to?" Vegard asked at last, maintaining his own vacant expression. Bård nodded to the wall.

"Every Tuesday." His foot started tapping and it drew Vegard's attention. Bård wasn't one to fidget. He was upset, hiding it poorly. Vegard wondered how much of the night his brother had been struggling to keep his composure.

"The counselor isn't helping at all?" His voice was croaky and he cleared his throat, but the eyes that finally landed on him determined that it was the wrong thing to say. He'd seldom seen Bård mad so far, but it was made up for in that moment.

"He doesn’t know," Bård sneered. "He can’t know, no one can. You fucking get that, right?" He paused, face twisting from anger to mere distress, breaking quickly in front of his brother. "What happened back there, we can’t…" Bård's voice cracked and it was as much discomfort as Vegard could manage. He turned away with a hand on his brow and stepped toward the hall. It wasn't a fight anymore, just a confrontation—with himself more than Bård—that he wasn't ready to face.

"Please don’t walk away from me," Bård cried. A genuine cry. Vegard could hear the tears building in his brother's throat. "Please, please not now. I can’t do this alone, I can’t have this going on in my head all the time—" He choked on his breath, and Vegard turned, his protective instincts overriding his need to flee. Bård's chest heaved and Vegard thought he must be having a panic attack.

He walked back over, standing only a few feet from Bård. He knew you were supposed to give people space when these things happened, but it started because he tried to leave. He didn't dare to touch him, just waited, hovered while his brother gained control of his breathing. 

Realistically, Vegard didn't know what he would have said to his brother if they had seen each other in the hospital, if they kept in contact during their recovery. It was easy to say they'd be fine, it wouldn't be awkward, but that wasn't really true. If they had kept talking, he wondered if maybe he would have said something wrong, fucked up Bård in some way. He was so fragile now.

He remembered how things were before it happened. Vegard had been ready to pull the plug on them both, he was so angry and exhausted. Bård came after him each day with more venom, more hatred, he didn't know what else to do. Now, Bård sat on the couch—hollow, like his insides were shucked out. Vegard would have given anything to be victim to his fire once more. Anything but this. It made him angrier, if that were at all possible.

It wasn't all on him. Bård wasn't the only one who needed help. Neither of them should have had to go it alone. Bård made that decision. 

His breath still shuddered and hiccuped in his chest, but it appeared the worst was over. Bård's eyes glanced up at Vegard for the first time since he drew close, but they only lingered for a moment. Vegard chewed on his lip, reigning in his impatience.

"If you wanted me to help you, you could have just talked to me," he said, condescendingly calm. Bård sniffled and coughed lightly. 

"No I couldn't."

"Why not?"

"I haven't... I haven't spoken to anyone, at all, in over a week." He ran his hands over his thighs, played with a hangnail on his thumb. "It's been getting worse. I don't know, I just... I've been freaking out a little lately, when I have to talk to anyone. It's like my throat closes up or something." 

"How did you deal with the painters earlier? Did you say anything to them the whole time they were there?"

Bård stilled his hands, maybe stilled his breath, if Vegard wasn't imagining it. Vegard waited, his brother would respond soon enough. Maybe he was still panicking. Why? Why couldn't he answer a simple question? 

"Bård?" Vegard called. He snapped his fingers in front of Bård's face, who only pursed his lips together. "Can you fucking answer me when I talk to you?"

"The painters didn't come today." Bård said it quick and quiet, his gaze didn't move.

"What?"

"I'm not getting my apartment painted." He looked down into his lap, and his lip trembled. 

"What are you talking about? The whole reason you're staying here is because you can't be home right now."

Bård floundered, looking around the room, anywhere but Vegard's downward stare. Vegard had lost all grip on the conversation, on Bård. But the longer his brother said nothing, the more Vegard worked it out. He just couldn't believe it.

"Bård, what the fuck is going on?"

"I couldn't, I— I had to have a reason to see you. Alone."

The wheels turned in Vegard's head, all the tell-tale signs that Bård showed when lying he had dismissed throughout the night—the quiet, the over-compensation. 

"Oh my god." Vegard's hand covered his mouth and he threw his gaze to the floor, unable to focus his vision that had become so blurry with rage. 

"See? Look how you're reacting. You wouldn't have let me without an excuse."

 _An excuse_. Bård was pleading with him but Vegard felt no pity or understanding for his brother's ruse. Their relationship was not something he cared to play with. He knew Bård was fucked up, but how he could think putting up an elaborate pretense to spend time together would help was beyond him. He dug his fingernails into the pads of his palms, feeling his outburst traveling up his throat. 

"God damn it, Bård, why couldn't you just fucking call me, like a normal person." His brother winced, leaned back away from Vegard. "Why couldn't you have just tried? From the beginning! I gave you so many opportunities and you let them go."

"I know, I know. I'm sorry," Bård said, his voice hiccuping again. "I'm trying to make up for it."

"You could have just asked me honestly, in these last few days, I wouldn't have cared. What is wrong with you and these weird fucking games you're playing? I'm serious, why didn't you just ask?" 

"Because you hate me now." Bård's small, pitying voice actually offended his brother. Vegard huffed and rolled his eyes.

"I don't hate you, Bård."

"Yes you do. Listen to how you're talking to me, how you've been treating me all night. You hate me. I knew it, I fucking knew it." Vegard turned away and gritted his teeth, hiding his frustration. "You won't even look me in the eye..." Bård whined, and he was right. Vegard couldn't look him in the eye. Not because he hated him, but because he understood everything now, everything Bård had done and it made him so ashamed at how little he'd tried himself that he couldn't process it any other way than with anger.

"God it's my fault," Bård rambled on. "I'm sorry I ruined everything, I'm sorry I fucked up. I'm sorry I let him hurt you." Bård's look scared Vegard, who finally drew his eyes over at the sound of his concentrated tone.

"Bård..."

"I watched him hurt you, and I didn't do anything. God I fucked up so bad, it's never going to get better. We're never going to get better." He clenched his teeth together with his last words, sudden fury frothing in his mouth.

"It's ok—"

"No." Bård got up and stormed past his brother. He looked like he was trying to get out, but there was nowhere to go. He stalled by the kitchen table. Vegard watched his frame quaking with each labored breath, and Bård slammed his fist down on the table. Vegard jumped at the sound, and his brother brought the shaky hand away from the tabletop, brought it up to cover his eyes. 

Vegard approached, slow, quiet footsteps not to frighten him. He didn't know the right way to proceed, but doing nothing couldn't help. He decided against addressing him from behind and came around to his front. It wouldn't have mattered, Bård couldn't see and made little reaction when Vegard placed his fingers around Bård's wrist.

"Bård," he called, and his brother allowed him to lower his hand away from his eyes. His cheeks were dry, he hadn't even cried. 

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, god—I'm so fucking sorry." He still wouldn't look at Vegard, and he let his hand drop from his. It couldn't help, touching him. Vegard realized he hadn't done that in a very long time.

"You can't forgive me," Bård said, like it was a statement of fact. 

"I can't forgive you because it wasn't your fault."

Bård looked up then, but shook his head and stared back at his feet. 

"I don't hate you," Vegard tried again. It seemed to do something; Bård inhaled from his whole chest and his eyes softened. "I don't hate you."

"I should have stopped him," he whispered, and he almost looked shy. Vegard felt a sense of deja vu, or maybe just keen nostalgia for times long ago in their lives when Bård would cry and pout for forgiveness when he did something wrong. His older brother was lenient, constantly. 

"Bård, I'm ok."

"No you're not, you said at dinner it still hurt."

"I was lying, trust me." Bård didn't believe him, his mouth was set in an unpleasant frown. "Here, feel." He grabbed Bård's hand and placed it on the side of his rib cage. His brother resisted for a moment, then softened as soon as his fingers brushed the cloth of his shirt. Vegard's hand covered Bård's, and watching Bård's fixed gaze on his side, pressed into his ribs. He heard Bård inhale, and controlled his face as the pressure created a faint ache inside him. It did still hurt, sort of, but Bård's anxiety about his injury seemed more painful. He moved their hands up and down, pushing in with careful force, making sure to appear unaffected. He watched Bård swallow at the sight.

"See?" he said. "I'm fine." He saw the wariness dim in Bård's eyes, then trail up to his own. He eased off, but their hands stayed in place.

Then Bård moved quickly, pulling his brother in for a tight hug. He wrapped his arms all the way around his torso, chests pressing into one another. Vegard sputtered at first, then moved his arms in slow motions to return the embrace. It took him maybe a minute to work up the courage to hold Bård back just as tight.

Feeling the reciprocation, Bård heaved a sigh and sunk further in, burying his face against Vegard's neck. They stood there, and eventually Vegard allowed himself to succumb to the comfort of his brother's warmth. It was the most contact he'd felt in ages, and from what Bård just told him, the same went for him. He supposed maybe they needed it. He was minimally conscious of the heat spreading through his body, cozy, replacing the burn of anger that seared him in the time they were apart. He realized after a moment that the heat was not just inside himself, but on his skin; Bård at some point had placed his lips flush against his brother's neck.

It didn't strike alarm until he heard the sound of Bård's lips pulling away, just for a moment before returning. There was no mistaking it then for what it was—he was kissing Vegard's neck, his mouth opening a little more each time. Vegard felt paralyzed, unable to breath, unable to tell Bård to stop. If he wanted him to stop. It wasn't until he felt his little brother's teeth graze against his skin that he could make a sound.

"Bård," he uttered, afraid what his voice would sound like if he put any more power behind it. They were so close anyway, he barely needed to breathe his words to be heard.

His brother didn't respond, only his hands on his back began to move, fingers pawing against his spine and coming closer to his sides.

"Bård," he tried again. Bård hummed against his neck. His hand reached the hem of Vegard's shirt, and slipped along his bare skin. It stopped when he grabbed hold of his hip, and squeezed. "What are you doing?"  

He knew what Bård was doing. He wanted to know if Bård knew what he was doing, if he was in his own conscious mind, continuing on, breathing, mouthing, initiating.

"Please," Bård said against his throat. "Please, Vegard." He waited a moment, for some sign of consent maybe, but Vegard couldn't speak. His rigid body was already weakening. Bård must have known and started sucking on his throat. His fingers slipped just under the waistband of his pants and Vegard's eyes slipped shut.

What Vegard failed to tell his counselor was that the dreams that tormented him were not always unpleasant. In fact, half of the time when he woke up sweating, panting, there was a sticky mess between his legs. His brain haunted him with the steaming image of his brother's lips around his cock, head bobbing, warm saliva enveloping him completely. When his dream-brother's eyes looked up, looked straight at him, that's when he came. When he woke up. Or worse, he'd waken just before, achingly hard, and be forced to finish himself off in consciousness. The image was the same. Each time, he felt tempted to take that same hand and shove it in the garbage disposal, flick the switch. He feared sleep. Even when it was good, it was bad.  

"Bård," he managed to rouse himself from his stupor. He fought for urgency, but it was a struggle. "Bård, stop."

"Why?" he mumbled. He didn't stop; his fingernails curled in and grazed the hot skin on his hips. 

"This is just him," Vegard said, pulling his throat back and away from his brother's mouth. He wanted to look in Bård's eyes, but he was too close to focus. "He's still controlling us if we do this."

"No, this is me." Bård connected his forehead with Vegard's, breathing out his words. "It's me."

"What do you mean?" he asked. He wanted to know if that he meant he'd thought about it before, however impossible it seemed. Impossible, was that the word? Vegard couldn't place his feeling, why his heart raced. "Bård?"

"Please, Vegard, I just..." Bård nudged his face against his brother's cheek. He came close to the lobe of Vegard's ear, whispering, “I want you close to me. I need you closer.”

Vegard's eyes fell shut again and he breathed, reigning in all his control. His body wanted to do something—reach, grab, _move—_ and his tenuous grip on resistance strained.

Bård pulled on his hips, pressing his pelvis against Vegard's. He felt him through the cloth, felt the press of pulsing blood where it shouldn't have been. Vegard was unaware of whether his physical enthusiasm matched that of Bård's, only the electric sensation when their hips moved, just a little. Vegard didn't gasp, it must have been Bård.

"Please," Bård whispered one more time, but didn't wait for permission. His brother was incapable of denying him anymore regardless, not as his lips ghosted across his skin, pecking here and there.  

It coaxed his muscles into relaxing, only tensing when his own tentative hand reached Bård's side, held a light grip that tightened as Bård used more of his tongue. Vegard grabbed him harder, pushing their hips together himself. No more hesitation. It was over. He was too gone. Just Bård in his head, and his hands, and running fire across his skin.  

He couldn’t remember ever feeling like that before, but it wasn’t completely foreign either. And perhaps that’s what was so frightening. The feeling crept in, disguising itself as instinct. Their faces were close then, the tip of Bård's nose grazing the bridge of Vegard's, and he inhaled thick, shallow breath that felt like smoke.  

He hadn’t yet kissed his brother. When they finally made contact, the effect was startling. He wished he could say that his brother's hot breath against his mouth and on his neck felt like warm carbon dioxide and nothing more, that when he touched his lips he tasted nothing. It wasn't true. There was more feeling in his chest than he could remember since it was broken open, and he pushed the pain and pressure against his brother's lips. It wasn't a choice. He needed it. Him.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This picks up right where the last chapter left off - so since it's been a while, I recommend going back & reading the last one to orient yourself/get into the mood ja feel

Frenzy. A tidal wave of momentum coursed and spilled through them, crashing hands on faces and limbs and torsos. A hive of lust buzzed deep inside of Vegard that served no other purpose than to excite the object of his desire. They traveled into the bedroom, a subconscious agreement that the only direction was further. They shared air the whole way over, syncing breath with steps and careful laps of tongues on lips.  Vegard stood with the mattress edge pressing into his calves, forcing himself to stay ridgid and not fall back into the plush—because his brother stood, and he refused to separate from him. They had been too long apart and every second Bård held him filled in one where he had been away. Vegard was determined to make them whole. 

Bård was unlike anything he had ever imagined. His dreams were nothing, whatever ecstasy he experienced through the terror of captivity was nothing—the real, willing Bård felt like a thousand windows opening in a sealed room, all his wants lit and shining. His brother's skin was softer than he remembered from accidental brushes in the past. His cheeks were hot; Vegard's thumbs pressed into the padding to feel the solidity of his skull beneath.  

Vegard's mind tried to wander to its usual paths, divets of his gray matter that held logical processes, rationales, reasoning, sense, conscience. The feel of Bård was too distracting. It pulled his mind off course into routes it never considered before—maybe he knew, in some peripheral way that these roads were there, but they were hidden behind deep synapsed fog.  

Bård moved his mouth to Vegard's neck again and dug his fingers into his scalp. Vegard planted his hands on the small of Bård's back, sneaking under his shirt. His skin was blazing, and he smoothed over the dimples there, rubbing small circles. Bård parted from him suddenly, removing his shirt and dropping it on the floor. Vegard eyed the crumpled, cast off white for only a moment before his brother removed his shirt, vision blacking out for a moment as the dark cloth pulled over his head. Vegard caught Bård's gaze just before they kissed, and he wished he could catalog that look, wire it into his sense memory of his brother. He was adding new ones with every passing second. The taste of his tongue, the smell of his sweat and hot breath, and the strange ragged smoothness of the scars on his sides. His fingertips fixated on the texture while Bård lowered them properly onto the mattress, straddling his older brother.

He couldn't see, only felt the keloid remnants of gashes, more than he could count. Bård whimpered as Vegard pushed along a raised line with his thumb, and then broke from his mouth. He took Vegard's right hand with his left and brought it up to his mouth. He kissed his open palm, the pad of his thumb, settling on his wrist, around scars of his own. Bård mouthed at the thin, jagged white line circling his wrist from where he struggled against his restraints in that basement. He remembered it didn't hurt, he didn't even realize he was injured until much later, when they lessened his medication and he found the cognizance to feel bandages on him. He grazed his other hand up Bård's ribcage, bumping slowly over each little ridge. Bård grabbed that hand too, holding his brother's wrists together and swapping languid kisses between the two. The position was awkward for Vegard, but he quickly forgot it when a dizzying pressure brushed against his pelvis. From his peripheral vision, he saw Bård's hips moving, keeping pace with his breathing. He ground his hips down onto Vegard's, just off the mark, so Bård's hard cock that strained through his sweatpants connected just to the left of his own erection. He got closer with each thrust, and Vegard undulated his lower body up in little moves to encourage his desired contact.

Bård planted one more kiss on his wrist, before taking Vegard's hands and pushing them into his hair. Vegard scrunched his fingers into the locks, thankful for something to hold onto. Bård kept his hands in place over his brothers, as he lowered himself down Vegard's abdomen. He placed kisses here and there along his skin, finally coming to the waistband of his tight black jeans. His hands slipped down, and pushed Vegard's hips into the mattress. Bård took the heel of his palm and pressed it over the bulge in his brother's jeans, eyes darting up to Vegard's face. It knocked the breath from Vegard's chest, the look and pressure combined. Finding the confirmation he sought, Bård hurriedly unbuttoned the jeans and pulled down the zipper. As he dipped his head down, something caught in Vegard's throat. 

"You don't have to," he choked out. Bård looked up, tongue slipping out to quickly wet his lips.

"I want to," he breathed back. He traced his thumb along the stiffness of his brother's cock and Vegard closed his eyes. His little brother caressed the outline of his bulge with all his fingers, faint strokes up and back. Vegard rolled his hips just as Bård pulled on the waistband of his briefs, and they worked together to pull off the rest. Bård pushed his hands up and over Vegard's thighs, kneading into the plush.

He paused as his hand neared Vegard's cock, and before even touching him, he leaned down and breathed over it. Vegard resisted the urge to shut his eyes, and stared hard as Bård's lips touched his tip, tongue joining soon after to give a wet, soft lick. Saliva poured from his mouth, coating Vegard's length as Bård ran his lips up and down. His fingers came soon to rub the slickness properly, Vegard's heart punching against his sternum. A cloud of heat hovered tight around his cheeks while Bård kept at it. There was admiration in the way he handled him; slow, slow touches and kisses to the hottest part of his body. He closed his fist around his brother's cock, pulling slow and tonguing the head once more.

"Fuck, Vegard," he whimpered. Vegard had little time to consider how it could be possible that Bård would be the one spewing obscenities, before his little brother dipped down with closed eyes and took the cock into his mouth. 

Vegard's eyes rolled back into his head at the sensation, and the weight of Bård's body against his own was the only thing keeping him from bucking upward. He made noise, he couldn't keep it in any longer, uttering swears and pitiful moans at Bård's efforts. He was so achingly slow with him, cupping his tongue around the underside of his length. He would spend time on different parts of it, sucking, pulling, and soon added his fingers rubbing at the base to the mix. It was driving Vegard crazy. He needed more, even if it meant coming too quick. 

His hands tightened without him knowing, fingers slotted into Bård's hair and gripping. The pressure wasn't much, and he only furthered Bård on himself the slightest bit, but Bård reacted by increasing his enthusiasm tenfold. Bård made noises that Vegard couldn't believe; small sounds reverberated around him as they came out of Bård's throat. He couldn't keep his eyes off the sight of it: of his little brother working on him so lovingly, so carefully, despite the creeping roughness that Vegard inched toward.

The tears gathering in Bård's eyes and his full mouth reminded Vegard of a time when they were younger, and he had playfully pushed Bård's hand while he was eating a popsicle. He choked and cried, yelling how much it hurt when he finished coughing. Bård was 8, maybe 9 at the time. But his lips looked just as red as they did then, with a cock shoved between them. The unsettling thoughts were chased away when Bård curled his tongue, dragging it back over his brother's flesh before pushing down again.

He lost himself in it, in Bård's mouth, eyes planted on the top of his brother's head. He pushed his head so far down that Vegard couldn't see himself anymore. Bård gagged and his brother's thoughts wiped clean. Vegard fucked his mouth at a gentle pace, Bård doing his part to be the willing and open space that his brother filled.  

He wanted Bård to look up. He wanted all of his dreams there in front of him, Bård around him and choking and making small noises. He needed his brother to look up. His hand tightened in Bård's hair and as he twisted his wrist to force his gaze upward, Bård pulled away. He panted hard, kept his eyes down, and Vegard felt shattering disappointment.

He only got out the breath of  _why_  before Bård's mouth was on his. There was so much eagerness in his lips; Vegard understood so little, nearly forgot that the different taste on his tongue was himself. Bård pulled his body so close, taking an entire hold of Vegard. He sighed, eyelashes tickling his brother's cheek. He shimmied out of his remaining clothes, staying close to his brother's face the whole time. He grabbed at Vegard's bicep, prompting them to turn until Bård was beneath him, Vegard's own weight resting them down into the mattress.

Bård didn't speak when he grabbed his brother's hand. His eyes raised to Vegard's but it wasn't the same now, the fantasy was gone. He only wanted to know what was happening, why their mouths weren't connected to one part of the other in some form. Bård took his palm and brushed it past the tip of his dick, which was already slick. Vegard was too slow in acknowledging what was happening, when their middle fingers were sunk further, and brushing over a deeper part of Bård. He applied pressure and moaned, which finally woke Vegard to his little brother's intentions. 

"Bård," he whispered. Their mouths were nearly together. Bård moved his head to the side, lips tickling the shell of Vegard's ear.

"I want you closer."  

Breath shuddered out of Vegard's chest, the words falling across every pore, every surface of his membrane. He closed his eyes, reveling in it.

He barely got out a word before Bård interrupted him with a fervent "Please," in his ear.

"Okay." He spoke quietly against Bård's jaw, grazing his lips across it before he backed away some inches. "Okay. Just wait." He placed his hand on the center of Bård's chest, feeling it deflate as Bård exhaled. He pushed himself upright, leaning over to the sidetable beside the bed. He rummaged his hand into the drawer, pulling out a small bottle of lube. He looked back at his brother, who stared up at the ceiling. Vegard curled in the hand on his chest, spreading his fingers out again and scratching his clipped fingernails across Bård's skin. Bård blinked, and continued to breathe.  

The cool air away from the heat of his brother's skin was almost enough to sober him to what he was doing. He plunged himself back into the fog, dipping to the crook of Bård's neck and kissing him there before he spread the liquid on his fingers. He thought he heard Bård for a moment, like three quick pulls of breath, but when he looked at his face his gaze was distant, mouth slightly parted. Bård took his brother's hand and Vegard propped himself up on his elbow, hovering over Bård's body.

He worked him open under Bård's physical instruction—his hand stayed on top of Vegard's, pushing them into himself more and more. Vegard didn't think much about what that meant, wasn't scared that Bård knew exactly what he wanted and how. Vegard's eyes kept focusing and unfocusing as he stared at the hem of the pillow case beside Bård's head. Hearing Bård was enough; seeing his face contort and crunch from pleasure-pain would be too much. It might make him want to stop and he didn't. He bade control goodbye when he let Bård touch him and he had no intentions to greet it again. It was freeing—and frightening—to let himself enjoy in whatever capacity he could perceive the burn of someone else's pleasure. The inside of his brother was absolute fire, and he tried to zero in on that instead of the strange difference in textures between the skin of his brother's fingers next to his own and the smooth tissue of everything else.

Bård's breathing evened out, hitching less with each movement. Then he made the most delicate, complex sound Vegard had ever heard. It was breathy and quiet but held a message of Bård's content. It was something they did with their fingers, together, and after a moment Vegard curled them again to reproduce the noise. 

It was intoxicating, the way Bård's body tensed beneath him, like tighening the strings on a violin. Bård clung to his brother's shoulder harder and harder like he was going to snap. Vegard increased their pace, caught in the twin rhythm of their nudging hands and Bård's strained whimpers. He could feel the pinnacle approaching, climbing to the peak of Bård's arousal, but he didn't think on what would happen when they reached the top. How far the valley lay below. Bård panted into Vegard's ear, taking three tries to get his name out properly. 

Vegard didn't respond, just kept staring beyond his brother's face while Bård stopped moving. He pulled their fingers out from inside himself and called his brother's name again. Vegard realized in the ensuing quiet how tightly he wound himself in their previous action, and now that it remained unfinished, the heavy drag of disappointment.

"Hey," Bård said. He was more forceful then, grabbing Vegard's jaw and turning his gaze to his own. Vegard allowed himself to look then, at the sweat slick on his brow and upper lip. He looked at Bård's hooded eyelids and the sweet rosy pink coloring his cheeks nose and lips. Bård reached forward into the minimal space between them and kissed his brother. Vegard was learning quick that for Bård, his mouth was his favorite method of persuasion.  

Between licking Vegard's upper lip and sucking it between his own, nails digging into his back he uttered "I need you to fuck me," against Vegard's mouth.

He grunted in response, kissing his little brother harder. Bård whined, drawing his hand from its place on Vegard's shoulder up to the underside of his neck. He pushed on him, a loud smacking noise made as their lips reluctantly parted.

"I mean it, please—"

Surprise, relief, or fear—Vegard couldn't tell which—covered Bård's face when Vegard backed off of him. He made quick work of spreading the liquid onto his dick, keeping his eyes on Bård's as he stroked himself harder. An unknown confidence overcame him, perhaps born from the pleading look on Bård's face—the one he cast over the years when he needed his brother's help. It was a great pleasure in its own—always had been—to wash that look away. He relished that now the expression to replace it would be the new one he was becoming so familiar with. The lost, focused but distracted look that took over when he touched him.

He lay down beside Bård and rolled him over to face him. He splayed his hand across Bård's back, traveling down to his ass, gripping it as a signal before pulling his thigh up. He pushed his pelvis closer then, lining himself up to Bård. There was just the heavy weight of his brother's motionless thigh laying on top of his own, which prompted him to look at Bård's face again, to read him. His eyes were nearly closed, and he bit into his bottom lip.  

Vegard saw the hesitation there, and smoothed his palm over Bård's arm as comfort. As a request.

"Ok?" he asked, and Bård nodded back, only a second off of immediately. He could have said no, and then what? Vegard realized at the same moment he sunk in that he didn't care much either way. Guilt didn't have time to follow that thought before his whole body was consumed by the heat surrounding his cock. Bård gasped first, bringing his hand up to paw at Vegard's bicep. He pushed in further and Bård left little crescent indents on his skin when he readjusted his grip. He didn't wait, like maybe he should have, for Bård to get used to it. He pulled out, pushed in, again, and again, using the logic that it could only get easier. Bård could only become more open. And he did. Vegard already found an easy pace when he noticed the cling on Bård's hands weren't so scared and more just desperate. 

It was good. Bård was good. Being inside him was all he ever wanted, Vegard told himself. It was easy, reasonable to believe it when feeling Bård's pulse on every inch of himself. He was so _with_ him, so part of him that he wondered, briefly, if he could even say he really knew him before. It worked like a sweet cycle, of Bård tensing and wrapping his limbs tighter around Vegard, who would fuck him harder, making his brother wind tighter yet again. Vocal too, Bård allowed himself to express his needs through little please's and fuck's and moans ranging from whimpers to near cries.

Despite this, Vegard knew from the hot—but not stiff—flesh bumping his stomach on each thrust that it wasn't equal. He darted his eyes to Bård's face, twisted and scrunched and red. He slowed himself, maneuvering space between their bodies so he could reach between them and touch Bård. 

"Don’t," Bård said. Vegard looked up at the urgency in his voice. He kept his hand there, barely wrapped around the head of his brother's cock. "Don’t touch me," he looked back at Vegard, less harsh, like a stuttering vulnerability was waiting to surface. "I want to come with you," he whispered. Bård cast his eyes down, and Vegard swallowed the swimming, brimming feeling in stomach. Bård wouldn't have to wait long, he thought. Bård curled himself around his brother more fully, speaking into his ear as he rolled his hips. "Don’t touch me until you’re about to come." 

Vegard removed his hand, moving it around to grip under Bård's thigh. He thrust in, and waited. Bård lifted himself then, doing the work for his brother. The frustrated, bratty whines coming from his mouth were hotter than Vegard would admit. He let Bård fuck himself a little longer, holding out those few more seconds for him to concede, to break, to beg. 

It wasn't something he knew he wanted until he did, until Bård was complaining, "Please, Vegard," clenching his muscles around him. "Please, more," he asked, and Vegard obliged. He shoved harder when Bård said harder, moved quicker when Bård demanded it. It was frantic, matching the momentum of Vegard's heart and mind. 

But, annoyingly, what sounded good and what felt good weren't the same. Something was missing and the unrestrained, uncontrolled part of him that took hold for those starting minutes became self-aware. It seemed that, in a graceful, thankful way, he couldn't really feel good if Bård didn't feel the same. And as they went on, the more Bård begged, the clearer it became that he didn't. How could he? The force he asked for was so far from loving, so far from pleasure. Vegard missed the small sound, the one he made with just their hands inside him. He ached to hear it again. When he felt something drip on his shoulder, the ache turned to dread.

"Bård?" he asked. His little brother's face was buried into his neck, his harsh breaths beating against it. "Hey," he called, pushing Bård's head back to look at him. He was crying, eyes clenched shut as drops slid down his cheeks and clung to the tip of his nose.  

"Harder," Bård mumbled, twisting something inside Vegard's stomach. His body obeyed the request, but the grunt of undeniable discomfort following it snapped him out of his daze.

"I'm hurting you," Vegard said—like an announcement, like Bård couldn't already feel the pain inside him, like Vegard couldn't see it all over his face.

"Please," he asked again, but Vegard couldn't. He stilled himself completely, the bump of their heaving chests the only things moving.  

He stared at Bård, who wouldn't look back. He looked tired, and oddly, like he was only verging on more tears. Vegard smoothed his thumb beneath Bård's eyelid, catching a tear on his eyelashes and spreading it along his skin. On instinct alone, he decided to search for a remedy within the realm they'd already entered.

Vegard moved his hands to grab Bård's wrists, take the hands clawing from his back, and pin them on either side of Bård. His upper body twisted so he lay flat against the mattress and Vegard followed after, changing them so he mounted his brother, covered his form from head to toe. 

Bård looked at him then, a calmness settling in. Vegard used a trick from Bård's book, kissing him soft, warm, and slow. Soon Bård reciprocated, something eager lapping back at him. As it built, as they revived, Vegard pulled, milimeter by milimeter out of his brother, until only the tip was inside. Distracting Bård as well as he could with his mouth, he pushed back at the same speed. The slow creep of heat covering his shaft mimicked the heat climbing up his chest and neck. Fully in, he pulsed, hitting that spot. Bård attempted to sing his quiet praise but Vegard swallowed it whole, memorizing it, and him, and them.   

It changed from slamming to slow sliding. With Vegard's concerted efforts at precision, he brushed his brother's prostate with every stroke, each longer, louder moan giving him the confidence to continue. To know for sure it was right, felt right, and to enjoy every second his brother clawed and mewled and sighed. 

Images of Bård as a little boy kept cropping up in short flashes behind his eyes, but then his mind focused and snapped into the moment. The contrast—what he really held onto, the hard, writhing man he thrusted into—made him hotter than anything he ever felt. It made him shiver and push deeper into his brother. A heady faintness reached him, unbidden climax racing on. There wasn't much time, and to his relief, when he reached down between them Bård was hard. He'd barely touched his brother through it all and as he pulled swift strokes he regretted it. He regretted listening to Bård. He knew best, he knew better than Bård how to make him feel good. He showed him, taking less than a minute before Bård came shuddering into his hand, arms wound all the way around Vegard's neck.

The delight in Bård's ensuing silence, in the ease that his hand caressed Bård's semen-covered cock lit up every ember to an inferno. He pushed just twice more before he came inside his brother, mouth attached to Bård's jaw, making sounds he didn't know hid inside himself.

Bård turned infantile, cooing small little words of affection that Vegard could barely register. Blood still pounded in his ears, thoughts swirling and settling like silt across his consciousness. Awareness blanketed his body slow and cold, but the electric synergy still thrumming between them jolted him back and forth from lust to logic. Bård clung onto him, adjusting his legs down from around Vegard's hips to mingling between his thighs. Vegard pulled his come-coated hand up, trailing it across Bård's chest. The fleeting thought of feeding it to him, like the child he behaved like occurred to Vegard, and in the same moment shook him out of all haze. Bård put his hand on his brother's neck and Vegard pulled out, rather unceremoniously. 

Bård grunted, and Vegard rolled off him. His limbs were heavy, deadened by the weight of reality sinking down onto him. Bård was somewhere else, riding a high that they no longer shared. They lay side by side, Bård whispering something about his skin while Vegard stared up at the ceiling and counted to ten.

He waited for the moment of horror to crash into him but it didn't, he only became more aware of the mess on his hand and stomach. Of the sticky peel Bård's palm made when he took it from the center of Vegard's chest and draped his whole arm across him. Vegard tensed, staying stock still as Bård rolled onto his side and faced him. He did nothing when Bård flexed his arm, gripping his side properly. The tiny shocks ricocheting through Vegard's bloodstream found their home in concentrated areas of his body; there were buzzing lumps of unpleasant tension in the pit of his stomach, the hinge of his jaw, and the base of his throat.

Bård brought his other hand up to the side of his brother's face, and Vegard moved his head to the side, avoiding the touch. Bård paused, his fingers now lying against his brother's ear and the mattress. He raised his hand to brush at a lock sticking to Vegard's forehead, who shook him off again. His hand stayed in place, then trailed down to rub the line of Vegard's jaw.

"Stop," Vegard uttered. His voice was low as a whisper but Bård heard him fine, froze his hand mid-motion.

"Stop what?" he asked.

"Touching me," Vegard replied, the smallest hint of guilt there, knowing the thought process his brother would spiral into as a result. Too late, and he meant it, anyway.

Bård slid his hand from his brother's face, "I can't touch you?" He tried to mask the hurt with sarcasm but things were too plain, their stances too clear. Vegard only sighed. Nothing—speech or otherwise—from either of them for a minute, until Bård inched forward, setting his head on his brother's shoulder. Vegard's heart skipped, rattling something inside his beaten and healed bones. They were supposed to have grown back stronger but his chest felt too weak to support the weight of his brother and all they'd done. Everything Vegard had done. 

"I said stop," Vegard spoke. He felt the muscles of Bård's face against his skin, creating some kind of undoubtedly unpleasant expression. He sat up on his elbow, looking over at Vegard who ignored him.

"Vegard," Bård said. The concern and faultlessness was so open in his voice. Shame, for his initial actions, and the ones he needed to follow with, clenched hard in Vegard's throat. He had a hard time responding.

"What?" he said. 

"What's wrong?" Bård asked. It was like earlier; Bård knew the answer. Why the fuck did he have to ask. Vegard looked at him then, shifted his eyes to see Bård's face fully. The damage was obvious. Unbearable. 

Vegard sat up in the bed, Bård's arm still on him, making to get off. Bård didn't let go, curled his fingers into his brother's side. "No, stay," he said.

"I can't, I need to be—I have to get away for a second," Vegard bargained. He pulled his brother's arm off from him, hurrying to stand.

"Please," Bård cried, urgency building in the widening of his eyes. "Please don't." He grabbed at Vegard's arm, leaning across the mattress. It was so uncomfortable, so absurd, Vegard couldn't bear to watch his torso drop onto the bed if he tore away.

"Bård, let go." He supressed his own feelings of panic, training his voice to sound commanding, not desperate. Bård was beyond that. He was panting and his cheeks already coloring with blotchy red. Tears welled in his eyes and Vegard swallowed against the knives piercing in his own throat.

"Don't go, Vegard don't—"

"I can't, it's too much. You're too..."  He couldn't continue, not without cracking his voice. The look on his brother's face was uniquely devastated. Bård slid his hand off Vegard's arm, and his brother watched as Bård's gaze drifted down, searching through his head for a mistake, mercy, something. His mouth hung open and trembled in unspoken pleas. Vegard turned from it and strode into the hallway, failing to flick on the overhead light.   

Entering the bathroom, his peripheral vision allowed him a view of the illuminated bed, of Bård sitting on the edge with his head in his hands. Vegard closed the door and turned on the light and the fan. He didn't hear Bård sobbing. He turned on the sink and let the tap run, waiting for it to turn scalding hot. When the steam started to rise he put his hands underneath, and unblinking, unmoving, watched his skin turn red.   

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate doing this, because I'm firmly of the belief that the work/prose should stand on its own without the need of visual aids etc., but I felt SO shitty using the word "keloid" when that wasn't actually the kind of scar I was trying to describe. Keloid scars are more like large masses (and unpleasant to google image seach, I wouldn't recommend it), but "hypertrophic scars" are red and raised scars made of tissue only on the original site of injury. This is the kind of scar I was trying to describe Bård as having. However, the correct term is a mouthful, and "keloid" is not /entirely/ wrong, so I used it. I hate myself for it, but I did it. 
> 
> If you want to know what the scars I invisioned Bård having look like, look here: http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/6/6c/Hypertrophic_scar_-4_months_after_incident-_2013-04-05_00-46.jpg/640px-Hypertrophic_scar_-4_months_after_incident-_2013-04-05_00-46.jpg
> 
> (It's not a very graphic image, don't worry. Maybe just a trigger warning for anyone uncomfortable with scars in general)


	8. Chapter 8

In the haze of Vegard's on-and-off dreams he could remember being 10 and going back to Norway on an airplane with Bård. Their parents were in the row in front of them with their little brother, while he and Bård sat side by side in their own row. Bård insisted on the window seat, and Vegard was disappointed, but allowed it anyway because Bård was awful when he cried. The plane ride was long and Bård slept most of the time anyway. Vegard kicked his legs back and forth in his seat, grumbling about the unfair arrangement to himself. He grabbed the empty cups of chocolate pudding left on Bård's tray and stuffed them in the seatback pocket. He lifted the tray up and leaned over his little brother, trying to get some view of the sprawling desert land beneath them. He'd read about the Sahara in an atlas he got the previous Christmas, and was itching to see the endless golden dunes for himself.

He wasn't big enough to see properly out the window without intruding into Bård's space, but he didn't really care. He unbuckled his seatbelt and pressed his palm against Bård's knee as he clambered over him. All he could see through the spaces in the clouds was a mass of brown. Bård whined out of his sleep, waking slowly and pushing on Vegard's arm. 

"Stooop," the smaller boy said in a sleepy groan. Vegard shushed him and pressed his forehead flush against the glass. He looked as far down as he could, straining his eyes until they hurt. The desert was down there, somewhere, if only Bård would just move out of the way. A little hand slapped at Vegard's, and then his arm. He ignored it and the high-pitched complaints, when Bård's flat palm struck his cheek.

"OW!" Vegard yelled, louder than it actually hurt, and slapped his brother across the face. His big blue eyes filled instantly with tears and the inevitable screaming started. Bård combined it with frantic legs kicking into whatever part of Vegard he could reach while the older one pinned Bård's arms down to the best of his ability. Soon their mother turned around and looked over her seat.

"Vegard," she warned, and he was poised to argue back his innocence when a small ding ran through the cabin. A little green light turned on above every row in the shape of a seatbelt. "Sit down, be quiet, and put your seat belts on," she said. Her fierce look made the boys obey without protest, but Vegard was seething inside. As soon as the seat belt sign turned off he would get into that window seat, even if it meant throwing Bård across the aisle.

Then the whole cabin vibrated, small at first before the entire plane dropped for a heart-stopping second in the air. Little gasps echoed throughout the rows and Bård's hand latched onto Vegard's wrist that laid on the armrest. Vegard looked out the window, but couldn't even see the wing, it was covered completely by cloud. He looked into his brother's eyes, overflowing with fear. The plane dropped again and Bård shut his eyes tight, squeezing harder on his brother's wrist. 

The plane took on an ever-present shaking, increasing slowly in intensity. Bård started to whine and he drew closer to Vegard as his own stomach filled with the feeling of dread. The pilot's voice came over the loudspeaker telling the stewardesses to return to their seats and as one rushed past him, Vegard lifted the armrest separating him and his brother. As soon as the barrier was gone, Bård was clutching Vegard's middle, arms wrapped completely around him. Their father called back to them from his seat, telling his boys that it would be alright, to just hold on. Nothing felt alright, Vegard thought, as Bård's tears seeped into his shirt. He wanted to do something—get into the cockpit, help somehow, take control. Bård was shivering and Vegard smoothed his hand over and over across his back until he closed his own eyes. His brother's face pressed hard against his chest and Vegard hoped, wished he could just make it better. Make them safe, whatever it took. 

In his reverie, the memory of his seven-year-old brother crying his name morphed into Bård from three hours earlier doing nearly the same thing as Vegard fucked him harder than he'd ever fucked anyone before. Vegard had trouble distinguishing nausea from the lustful chill shooting into his stomach. He was wide awake and the dark quiet of the living room was deafening. He shifted his body on the couch, turning over so he faced the back cushions. His heart was racing, what was the point of sleep. Lurid images flashed behind his eyes at lightening speed no matter how still he stayed.  

It made him sick, it made him so sick to think of Bård like that. Bård was his brother, just a little boy in that part of his mind. But he wasn't anymore—Bård was big and hot and hard and he could moan so loud if Vegard touched him right. If Vegard took his cock and shoved it inside of Bård until he could barely talk. Until he was weeping because he was so hard and begging just begging for it.

Vegard was sick. Sick from the start. Sick to think it but more sick to like it.

He could drown it, make it go away if he made it too real. Surely. He shut his eyes harder and focused his mind on the memory of his brother in a crib. He fussed so much as a toddler, constantly throwing tantrums when he didn't get his way. Vegard would taunt him sometimes, from his freedom outside of the wooden planks. Bård screamed at the top of his lungs, scrunching his face that was dripping with tears. Bård crying and shouting Vegard's name before a wrench drove hard into his chest.  

He pressed his palms against his eyes, making pitch black somehow darker. Little Bård. Annoying Bård. Bård coming into his hand. Bård throwing his favorite toy into a river. Bård unconscious lying in Bjørn's lap. Bård's mouth covering his adam's apple and whimpering. Baby Bård swaddled in a blanket just come back from the hospital. Bård between his knees.   

He was dizzy and didn't know if he was hard or crying or hyerventilating or even awake. But when he heard the crash in the other room, it all stopped. He opened his eyes in the dim light of his living room and sat up from the couch. His skin chilled as the blanket slid off his legs; he only had on used boxers and a shirt from his hamper. He listened for further sounds, and a moment later heard the muffle of his brother cursing and what sounded like broken glass. He got up from the couch and hurried down the hall. 

Dim light pooled from his bedroom, and he stepped lightly across the hardwood. "Bård?" he called, abandoning all reticence and guilt from earlier. He made his voice clear and demanding. "Bård?" he tried again.

He approached the threshold of his bedroom and saw his brother sitting on the edge of his bed. The lamp on the opposite sidetable was on, but the one closest to Bård lay shattered in pieces by his feet. Bård sat with the duvet covering his hips, his bare chest lightly heaving.  

"Bård?" He walked into the room, stepping just up to the shards on the floor. "Bård what's going on? Are you okay?"

Bård looked to the ground, gaze fixed at the mess before him. His mouth hung open and Vegard waited for him to answer. He wouldn't though, Vegard knew he wouldn't. Vegard stepped closer, inching his ankles along the side of the bed to avoid damage. Bård glanced at him then, for only a brief second.

"What happened?" Vegard asked, but Bård's eyes had already shifted away.

"I—it broke I'm sorry." He brought his hand up to run it through his hair, but it shook and caught halfway through its course. Vegard leaned over his brother, a knot twisting in his stomach at the gesture.

"What's going on? Are you all right?"

He wouldn't say he cowered, but Bård's shoulder curled inward a fraction at Vegard's concern. 

"I tried to get up and I couldn't see..." He didn't continue. Vegard understood, sighed, and nodded in Bård's general direction.

He took a seat on the end of the bed and assessed the scene. His brother didn't change his position, sat staring with wide eyes at the floor. He had tear tracks running down his cheeks. He was still naked. Vegard wondered if he had moved at all since he walked away.  

"Did you sleep?" he asked. His brother wouldn't look at him. The whites of his eyes were more of a light pink and he wondered whether it was from crying or something else. "Bård, did you sleep?" He placed his hand on Bård's upper arm without thinking; Bård's tremble was visible but Vegard left it there, willing his own self not to flinch away at the unconscious touch.

Little sounds came from his throat, like he was starting to speak. His eyes were distant, dry, and his brow furrowed at the last second. He turned his head toward Vegard, but couldn't make the eye contact. Not quite. 

"Why did you leave?" he asked. He sounded so innocent, so young and small. He was. He wasn't, Vegard reminded himself. But his thin frame and scarred sides showed his present self. Afraid and hurting. 

His hand slipped off of Bård's arm and Vegard cleared his throat, looking away. He warred inside between extreme care and trepidation. Two of the shattered ceramic pieces on the floor clinked as Vegard's foot brushed against them, testing the sharpness. He pressed his toe against an edge, but backed off. He feared the pain. Bård's rattling breath beside him licked a flame of irritation—a clever disguise for guilt.  

He ran his hands over his knees and faced Bård. It needed to end. Bård needed to understand. It was bad. He'd done a bad, bad thing. 

"I was hurting you."

"It's okay," Bård urged, inching his hand out to Vegard.

"It's not okay." He demanded Bård's gaze, needed him to acknowledge the severity of it. 

"I wanted you to do it," his weak voice answered. It really was like arguing with a child. 

"That's not okay, Bård. I don't like hurting you, I don't like that. I don't want to do that."

"You didn't. You didn't I promise."

"You were crying—"

"No, you made me feel good." Bård clasped his clammy fingers around Vegard's, not a real proper hold. "You made me feel so good. I feel better now." The false, sticky gratitude coating Bård's words was sickening. Bård tried to lace his finger's between Vegard's but he pulled his hand away, sharply, leaving the loud pat of Bård's hand hitting the duvet.

"Clearly you don't." Vegard stood. "Look at you, Bård, you're broken."

His little brother frowned, comically so, turning his gaze back to the shards. That guilt again, the one Vegard needed to chase away tickled behind his navel. 

"Maybe you were right," he started. Bård's eyes whipped up, and Vegard realized he needed to clarify. "Before. Maybe we shouldn't see each other."

"Vegard, no, please—"

"We obviously are still too fucked up from everything—"

"No no, please," Bård's voice creaked. Vegard didn't know if his face showed the repulsed feeling sweeping over him. "Please don't be mad at me. I'm sorry, don't—"

"Stop apologizing! This is my fault, I let this happen."

"Don't do this. Don't leave." Bård grabbed for his hand.

"Stop it, Bård."

"Please, please I can make it better." He reached his arm out, fingertips brushing the waistband of his brother's boxers. Vegard recoiled, and Bård dropped his bare knees to the floor. "Please, I can make you feel good." He rushed his words, eager hands mimicking their urgency. He chased him forward, brushing against the broken porcelain and struggling to hold onto Vegard's hips. "I'll do whatever you want. I'll make you feel good I swear." His left hand gripped Vegard's hip while the other hurried to pull down his boxers. The blood drained from Vegard's face at Bård's fervent attempt.

"Stop!" He grabbed Bård's wrists and held them away. "Stop it," he yelled. Bård paused, looking like he might beg again but he pressed forward, to fight Vegard off and degrade himself more, to Vegard's horror. He squeezed hard on Bård's wrists, pushing him back and letting go so that Bård faltered and fell on his side. His face was turned away, looking at the floor as he pushed up onto his elbows. Bård's exposed, pale body shook there on the floor; brusque breath puffed from his mouth. Then after a minute he moved again. He scarcely lifted himself up onto the bed and Vegard had a hard time hearing him, but he was gasping out something between hyperventilated breaths.  

The crying got louder, but he worked out that Bård was saying _Don't. Leave._ over and over in hard coughs. Vegard froze in place, watching and letting him fall apart. The moment was crucial. Everything was now and Vegard needed to turn around get in a plane and fly it into a mountain or he needed to help Bård. Help him in the socially or psychologically appropriate way, or the way that would actually do something. The way Bård wanted him to help. He wanted to, but how could he touch him when he made him sob and writhe with equal measure. How could he control the outcome. Seconds and seconds were whirring past them like running water and Bård called louder and less intelligbly, threatening to be carried away by his own instability. 

Growing up, Bård was their parents' favorite. He was never victim to middle sibling syndrome, as his singular charm allowed him to capture the affections of their parents regardless of the mischief he caused. Logic would state that Vegard be jealous of him, resentful that he was burdened with the constant lectures of responsibility and duty, while his little brother got to do whatever the fuck he wanted. But none of that ever mattered to Vegard, because he was Bård's favorite. Out of them all, and despite the bickering and differences that might separate them otherwise, Bård unequivocally loved Vegard more than anyone else in their world. He felt it, every time he punched him or pushed him around, saw it when his composure would break into a brilliant smile upon seeing Vegard laugh at one of his jokes. He knew this, but it was still surprising—hitting him like an anvil and crushing him into the ground when he thought of it. The gun was still pressed to Bård's head, he could see that now. Bård shook, crying like he was about to die. The things his parents used to lecture him about came to mind. There was less fear around actually loving his brother and more the aspect of wanting to.

Vegard sat on the bed, wrapped his arms around Bård for the nth time that night. He pulled Bård's shoulder blades flush against his chest and squeezed as hard as he could. His brother trembled so hard under his grasp, even fought to push him off for a few seconds. Vegard held fast, thinking maybe if he could overpower the shuddering, he could overpower the trauma and pain taking hold of Bård. Tears dripped onto his hands clasped in front of him, and he waited.   

Vegard breathed in through his nose, loudly, enoucaging his brother to do the same. Slowly Bård fell into a shaky rhythm more like respiration instead of drowning. With each inhalation Vegard gathered more of Bård's scent. He knew it from a million other times of proximity in their lives, but now it called him, said his name as it lifted off his brother's skin and snaked its way through his lungs and capillaries. His brother was flowing through him, oxygenating every cell in his body and filling it with calm, steady life. It was strange, since Bård himself was so hot and flushed and falling utterly apart. Vegard felt a transfer, an osmosis of control trading from himself to Bård; his shivering body started to still and little links of Vegard's restraint unlatched in quiet content.      

His lips moved slow along his little brother's neck, varying pressure along the column. As Bård began to fully calm, Vegard slid his tongue across his skin, tasting the salt from fallen tears. Bård exposed his neck further, encouraging him with faint sighs. 

Vegard felt the loss of something—physical, tangible—though he knew it wasn't. With his mouth attached to his brother's neck—free from the frenzy of ecstasy and instead a thorough decision—he pushed through a layer of their beings that coated them their whole lives before it. The surface of their skin fell into cracked ash casings, dusting and disintegrating as Vegard lapped into the new, raw membrane of their connection beneath. Around them the restraints of the old degraded and sunk as sweat on the sheets—the remains of uncomplicated brotherhood rotting at their feet.     

The game had been set against their will, their moves and plays chosen for them. The only way to win was to enjoy it. 

 

Vegard cleaned his brother up; took him into the bathroom, had him showered and his hair washed. Bård didn't speak, only communicating through nods to Vegard's yes or no questions. Vegard put him in fresh clothes of his, made the bed while Bård brushed his teeth, then ushered him onto the left side of the bed when he finished. Bård curled himself toward the center of the bed, arm tucked beneath the pillow. Vegard lingered at the bedside, feeling the plush down of the duvet before leaving to shower and ready himself for sleep. 

When he returned, the room seemed dimmer. It was likely his eyes adjusting to the solitary functioning light source in the far corner. As he approached the bed, he paused, kicking the shards of shattered porcelain from the light's defunct twin under the bed. He walked around, turned off the lamp and came back to his side. A streetlamp outside peered feeble light from under the drapes. It was just enough to notice Bård's barely open eyes as he lowered himself beside him. 

Vegard lay on his back, Bård on his stomach. He looked up at the ceiling, at the oblong orange strips peeking through the blinds. He felt Bård thinking, but didn't want to ask. Bård could talk, if he needed to. He'd like to hear his voice though. Make sure it still worked. 

Not long later Bård broke the silence.

"What if I was just your brother," he asked. "That was it. And nothing else ever happened. Would you be happy?"

Vegard contemplated the 'nothing else' for a moment, wondering how far into their history it covered. Bjørn, Ylvis, Africa—he supposed it didn't really matter. 

"I wouldn't know anything else." He looked in the dark to Bård's face. "I wouldn't know I was unhappy." Bård curled his fingers in the sheets, deflating. "That isn't what I want."

"Okay."

His voice was hollow. Vegard scrambled to articulate himself, to express the depth of his blind committment to Bård. 

"How about this?" he asked. Bård paused, fingers unclenching. 

"What do you mean?"

"What if we..." Vegard was unsure how to phrase it. There was a moment he felt himself change. When he panted into the crook of his little brother's neck, far closer than he should ever have been, wanted to be, a shift in his techtonic morality occured. Possibilities, or _options_ , he corrected himself, were open to them now. "We can try this." He reached across, fingertips sliding along his back. Bård knew his meaning. He started it after all. He'd agree. "Would that be okay for you?"

Bård nodded. His face was shadowed among the pillows and sheets; Vegard could only intuit if his expression bore something like contentment or distress. His fingers traveled down his little brother's side, fascinated by the way the skin paled under his touch, then regained its color as he moved on. Gentleness couldn't leave a mark; he had so many already. He trailed back up, across his forearm, finding rest on top of Bård's palm that lay flat on the mattress. He heard his brother exhale. Vegard spent the next half hour timing his breath to match that of his brother's. He thought he could pinpoint the moment they fell asleep, pulses falling in time with one another as they lapsed back into a singular dream.

 

 

 

 

 

Bård fluttered his eyes in the dim light, focusing on the image of his brother's back. Slow clicks of awareness zeroed in across his consciousness, where his foot grazed the warmth of Vegard's calf, the numbness of his fingertips trapped under his brother's torso. Morning, he assessed, this was dawn. Habits and ingrained attitudes prevented him from rising, though even to rustle his limbs issued sore complaints. His body ached, worse and worse as his cells brightened with wakefulness. Staring straight at the expanse of skin before him, he remembered to breathe, just as the ribcage he watched did. His exhale was long and painless, but his bones objected to filling his chest cavity full of oxygen. It almost made him dizzy, how long he waited to breathe out. 

His brother slept. No moves, no complaints, no fears like this. Bård was always, always tired but the strong pull to sleep and mimic Vegard's state felt different. He longed to fight off his anxiety and whirring thoughts with such simple carelessness. _We'll be safe like this_ , he thought. _We'll be calm_. His body, his brother, and everything willed him to succumb, let the easiest route take its course. _We'll be safe,_ he could have whispered, but he didn't. The softness of the words lingered in the space between his lips and his front teeth, and he closed his eyes to let go. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end is nigh (hurray!)


	9. Epilogue

In a hotel room, in some city that wasn't home, but not that far away either. The brothers set their bags down at the foot of their respective beds. They looked around, Vegard peering into the bathroom, Bård going to the window to look at the view. Vegard noted the singular set of shampoo and conditioner mini-bottles. He tutted, knowing Bård would probably just opt for not washing his hair at all, despite its ever-growing greasiness. 

"You can see the airport from here," Bård called from the other room.

Vegard turned on the sink to wash said airport off his hands. A melody entered his head and flowed out his mouth while drying his hands on the towel hung neatly on the rack by the shower.

_"Come fly with me, let's fly let's fly away..."_

With a little jolt of surprise, Bård's hands slipped along Vegard's, his body pressed up behind him. He pulled out their arms as one, spread out like imitation wings. Steering them out of the bathroom, they traveled into the main room singing the same forgotten lyrics, curving and turning through the static air. 

_"Da da da da, da-da, da dum dum, ba-dum, Acapulco Bay,"_

Bård as captain landed them in front of a long mirror behind a desk, smiling at his brother between their mutually poor imitations of a lounge singer's face.

_"Let's fly let's fly, let's take off in the blue..."_

Their exaggerated voices faded out, and Bård wrapped his arms tight around Vegard's middle. The older brother watched their reflection, eyes glued to his brother's face that nuzzled into his neck and grazed lips across his sensitive flesh. 

"This is why we don't do revue anymore," Bård spoke against his neck. Both their mouths curved into smiles, Bård squeezing tighter around him in the challenge he knew it to be.

"Oh really? Why is that?" Vegard took the bait.

"Because you're cheesy as shit. Did you hear yourself?" Bård's teeth pressed down with delicate pressure before he pushed himself away, retreating to the other side of the room. Vegard remained fixed, looking at the two of them through the mirror. Comfortable clothes, easy expressions, Bård fiddled with the TV remote to fill his vacant mind.

A ripple of something like dread or nausea shot through Vegard's core, a not altogether uncommon occurrence as of late. Vegard thought he was pinpointing the cause of it; usually the fear-feeling cropped up in moments of absolute calm or tranquility. He figured it had to do with being scared: of how happy he felt, how close to normal everything had become. 

"What do you want to watch?" Bård asked, flicking through channels quicker than Vegard could register what they were showing.

"Um, I don't know, what's on?" He swallowed twice, then grabbed a water bottle from his bag. Throwing back the liquid, he felt his uneasiness wash down to a dull murmur.  

They were stupidly close. If he tried to say that codependency didn't take some getting used to, he'd be lying. But more surprisingly, it'd also be a lie if he said he wasn't on board. Seven months and there was hardly a moment of separation between them. People noticed, but given the trauma, politeness prohibited any further questions.

They weren't home a lot anyway. They traveled, first to Singapore, then New Zealand. They made an effort to reach the furthest end of the earth they could find, marveling in mutual panic at how far they could run and still feel like someone was on their back. It didn't matter where they were. Home or abroad, safety was a sibling that knew you, a brother that swore on his soul to protect you better than you could yourself. Somehow it managed to work that way. When Vegard saw his little brother withdraw into a world of guilt and regret, he could pick up the slack and reel him back in. All it took was some encouragement—a joke, a jab at himself, or the most effective way, tackling him to the floor until their lungs were empty and veins pulsing hard.

"Just kidding, we're watching this." Bård sat on the edge of his bed, transfixed on the screen before him.

"What is it?" Vegard turned around to watch the screen, but instead ended up just staring at his brother's gleeful face.

"You'll hate it, just watch."

Vegard walked to the bed, plopping down beside Bård. Almost immediately Bård shifted, laying his body across the edge and placing his head in his brother's lap. He snuck his hand under Vegard's knee, thumb rubbing through his jeans while he stared at the television. Vegard peered over, watching.

"Get your shoes off the bed," he said. Bård dropped his feet down, keeping his head in place. He toed off his shoes, then brought his sock-clad feet back up on the mattress.

Bård was right, he did hate the show. Instead of watching the hapless reality stars he opted for staring down onto his brother's exposed neck. He watched his pulse point, the faint glow of blue veins surfacing like branches of a tree through fog here and there on his skin. Bård kept up his incessant touching, little strokes that couldn't reach his skin—fruitless affection. He looked longer at the thudding, the slow, calm pace of his heart there in his neck. He wondered briefly what he could do to make it race.    

"What do you think she's going to do, throw the wine in her face or hit her?" Bård asked, mirth spreading across his face. He grazed his knuckles across Vegard's shin with his free hand.

Vegard said he’d do anything to save his brother, and he meant it. He was willing to never take another breath, never see Bård’s face again if it meant his brother could be spared. But maybe dying for someone was easier than giving them one half of yourself for forever. If he’d died for him, he wouldn’t have to deal with the consequences—the hurt, the trauma, the fear. But as it was, some miracle allowed them both to live. And he had the nerve to complain about it? To question his commitment? In the months that followed the declaration he came to realize that he was willing to do this small thing—really it was nothing when he thought more about it—if it meant it would save his brother and calm the violent storm inside him. It didn't really matter if it was fucked up or unhealthy or bad. If they could sit in a hotel room, doing a promotional tour for their talk show, watching trash TV that made Bård smile, it was worth it.

"Ok, watch watch watch! And- oh, the wine! I knew it! Did you see, Vegard? Did you see her face?" Bård looked over in question, but Vegard was already looking at his phone. 

 

 

It was night. Or maybe just very early, Vegard wasn't sure. They'd talked too much and too long for the morning that awaited them (several interviews, a photo shoot, and then last minute editing on the video airing in the first episode). Their speech lulled to a stop when sleep set in, coaxing each into warm blankness from the body beside them. That is, until the sleep wore off, Vegard feeling fingertips grazing along his back in the darkness. He didn't turn, didn't acknowledge his brother other than a faint, half-conscious hum. He focused on the feeling of Bård's fingers, clipped nails playing lightly across his skin. They crossed and looped until Vegard made the realization that they were forming letters, and then a word. Simple, a mere 'H-E-Y'. Vegard smiled and chuckled softly.

"Are you spelling on my back?"

_Y-E-S_

His smile didn't fade.

"Why are you awake?"

Bård took his time spelling the next word, almost losing Vegard's concentration.

_N-E-R-V-O-U-S_

"What for?" Vegard crinkled his brow to the night stand across from him.

"I don't know," Bård breathed. Just a whisper, but his brother knew better than to ignore his apathetic response. He turned over to see the wakeful man tracing patterns into the mattress now instead, teeth biting and pulling at the inside of his cheek.

He could reassure Bård that tomorrow would be easy, that it was nothing they hadn't done a hundred times before, but he knew it would only earn him an eye roll and a frustrated  _'I know, Vegard,'_  from his little brother. There were new tactics now, increasingly familiar ways to ease his brother into a unique calm only he held the key to. 

Vegard reached his hand across the small space between them, running his palm over Bård's forearm. His pace was slow, working his way further up his bicep and then shoulder with each stroke.

"Closer?" he asked, at last coming up to his neck. Bård nodded, no hesitation in his answer. Vegard scooted his body further in, taking his hand and placing it on the small of his brother's back. He brought his mouth inches away from Bård's, gauging his eagerness for intimacy by the timing of the breath beating back on his lips.

"How close?" Vegard asked, noting how Bård's breath stopped at his words.

"Whatever you want," he exhaled back. His skin, muscles, his entire body was pliant under his older brother's hands; a statement of willful surrender communicated to him through faded blue irises in the dim light.

Vegard wanted all of him. Everything.  

 


End file.
